The Garden
by dervishspin
Summary: WIP: Warren Helps Scott cope with grief after X2.
1. Default Chapter

Chapter 1.        

Warren stepped out of the red Porsche he had casually parked in front of Xavier's School for Gifted Children and slammed the door behind him.  There were several other vehicles in the semi circular driveway, two SUVs and a Land Rover, though not as many as he had expected. He checked his Rolex. 7:01 pm.  Just in time.  Not late, but not so punctual as to be awkwardly, unfashionably early.  He frowned at that thought, annoyed with himself; when did he ever get so jaded?  Warren felt old taking the brick stairs one at a time, rather than leaping or flying up them, the way he remembered from his youth, although the last time he had been on these steps he had also taken them one at a time, slow and shocked. Then he had been a kid, with his MBA still a year away from completion.  It had been dark that night, cold, the rain rapidly turning into sleet in defiance of the spring.  A single suitcase banged against his legs, his father's silver Bentley, the back door spilling it's light out into the night, open for him.  Without a backward glance he had walked away from his career as a vigilante. Walked away from his friends.  He shook his head and turned his mind away from the sleet and the darkness.  Tonight it was clear, with the new moon overhead feebly trying to illuminate a lawn not yet covered with leaves.  At the top of the steps, he pulled open the door, the brass doorknob cool under his hand, and stepped inside past the remote Georgian façade.

The foyer looked almost the same as it had when he had left.  The same teak paneling and the same quiet English countryside oil paintings on the wall.  There was a bullet hole in the wall over the stairs, wondered when the hall had acquired that and why it hadn't been fixed yet.  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell was the same though, leather and old wood, and a touch of dust.  It was comforting.

"Are you here for the memorial service?"

Warren's eyes snapped open.  He had not noticed the girl standing on the oriental carpet at the end of the foyer.  She was tall, for a teenager, and thin, with light brown hair that swung just above her shoulders. The skin around her eyes was red and streaky. "Yes I am," He said gently.

She reached for his coat, which he handed her, "Turn right, and down to the end of the hall." In the dining hall, the biggest room in the upper half of the house.  Of course.   Warren turned to walk down the hall, then changed his mind and turned back towards her.  The girl was gone. He blinked and looked around himself. A moment later she walked out _through _the door of the coat closet.  She no longer had his coat.  Warren's eyebrows crawled up into his hairline. "That way," the girl pointed down the hall. This time he obeyed, following the sounds of people talking in hushed voices.

The overwhelming smell of flowers hit him as he crossed the threshold into the dining hall. They were everywhere.  Towering arrangements were placed on every available flat surface, tastefully decorated with lilies, delphiniums, carnations, gladiolas, and daisies. And roses, hundreds of roses. It seemed that everyone had remembered her fondness for them and tried to outdo each other with elaborate displays of that flower. There were white and peach, yellow and pink and red, the color of spilled blood. It was a dizzying riot of color in a room otherwise filled with dark somber suits. For a moment Warren thought he saw a casket set up behind the lectern, but then his eyes focused and he knew he was looking at a sideboard stacked with plates. He shook his head. There was no casket, because there was no body, just a grieving husband, grieving parents, students and friends, he included, who would miss her terribly. Jean was gone. 

Scott was standing stiffly next to Jean's mother who was speaking to a woman he didn't recognize.  He looked dazed, like he might actually fall down at any moment. He was wearing a new version of his ruby quartz glasses, they took up less room on his face, but it made the hollows in his cheeks stand out in sharp relief.  Warren wondered if he had bothered to eat in the last week.  Ororo was across the room speaking to a handful of teenagers.  One of the girls had a wide white streak in the front of her brown hair.  At first glance the room looked populated with mostly students, though Warren was guessing the other adults were either family members or Jean's colleagues. No sign of Henry. He heard the sound of a motorized wheelchair, and turned. 

Professor Charles Xavier had been deep in conversation with a tall good looking boy with blue eyes and light brown hair, but his face lit up into a smile when he saw his old student step into the room.  He moved his chair closer, "Warren, so good to see you again.  Thank you for coming."

            Warren closed the distance between them, knelt down and took Charles Xavier's hand in his own, "Sir..." he started, and then stopped, alarmed at the intensity and swiftness of the emotion rising within him.  He squeezed his old mentor's hand instead of choosing to finish his sentence. Charles' eyes twinkled, and he returned the pressure, but his smile was sad and tired. 

"You're the Angel," the boy observed, almost reverently.  

            There were, outside of this mansion, only a dozen people still living that knew of Warren's mutation and fewer still who knew of his former life as a crime fighter. It was disconcerting to meet someone, especially someone so young, who already knew his deepest secrets. 

            "I am," he said carefully, stood and extended a hand." Warren Worthington the third".

            The kid nodded, took it, "Your picture is on the wall in the library, "he waved his other hand to indicate where in the mansion it was, though of course Warren already knew. "I'm Bobby. Bobby Drake."

"Very nice to meet you", he replied gravely.

Xavier could sense Warren's wariness, "Bobby is one of our students," he reassured Warren quietly,  "He is rapidly proving to be very helpful to the rest of my X-Men.  He was on the mission that Jean died."

And there was nothing, really that anyone could think to say after that. Warren thought of moving on to greet Scott, but just then a priest in a collar stepped behind the lectern and mourners began to take their seats. Warren took a deep breath.  Jean and Scott had never been particularly religious, he assumed the addition of a priest must have been Elaine Grey's doing.  He knew it would make Scott uncomfortable, and he felt for his friend. 

Bobby excused himself and headed towards the group surrounding Ororo. The girl with the white streak in her hair met him half way, took his hand in her gloved one and sat down together in the middle row of chairs.  

Xavier laid a hand on his arm.  As usual, he had followed his thoughts,  "If your schedule will allow it, please consider being my guest for the weekend. I think that Scott would benefit from spending time with you.  I also think that you and I have a lot to discuss."  Warren hesitated, his schedule wouldn't allow for it, he had business meetings even on Sunday, but more than that he feared like hell the place where Scott was.  But Xavier had intrigued him too. He found himself agreeing to the suggestion. He pulled out his PDA and made a notation to cancel all his appointments. 

The Professor moved his chair towards the lectern and the space that had been left for him next to Scott.  Scott's parents had been killed when he was a child, and Xavier was the only father figure in his life. With the loss of his fiancé, Scott was not unlike Warren, now. 

The backdrop of flowers abruptly blurred, and Warren passed a hand in front of his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Warren blinked rapidly to dash the traitorous tears away before looking up into the face of a man he did not recognize. The voice had a heavy German accent, but the body that went with the voice did not at first seem to match. For one thing, he was a blue, with yellow eyes and pointy ears.  He also had strange marks, like tattoos, all over his face and neck and on the back of his hands.  His fingernails were thick and claw like, with only two fingers and a thumb on each hand.  A long blue, spade tipped tail snaked out behind him.

Warren hoped that he kept his expression of surprise off his face, knew he had failed.  He smiled to soften his reaction, "I'm fine."

"Ach," the mutant said, abruptly distressed. He looked down at himself "It must not be werking. I thought the Professor said he was going to put an illusion on me to make me not scare people." He had pointed teeth as well.

Warren grinned, amused at the old man, "He must think I can handle the shock in polite company."

"You are not frightened?" 

            "No, I am not.  Please, won't you come sit with me?"

            The two of them moved to the last row of chairs.

            "My name is Kurt Wagner."

            "Warren Worthington, the third."

The priest began to speak then, to call the Memorial service to order. Warren put his attentive face on but tuned out the priest's words.  He stood when the others stood, bowed his head with everyone and went through the motions of being a good mourner.  Kurt seemed to pay closer attention, speaking the words to the psalms and the Lord's prayer with fervency that put the Priest's own conviction to shame.  Warren saw Bobby put his arm around his girlfriend, who was sobbing quietly.  Ororo was holding the hands of two of the younger students with her head down.  Scott sat ramrod stiff, too conscious, Warren guessed, of his role of grieving husband to allow himself to mourn.  He wondered what it was going to take to make the man let go. 

            He supposed, rationally, that the length of the service was normal, but it seemed to Warren to stretch on too long.  There was too much time to think.  He knew he should be thinking of Jean, but his mind's eye kept seeing her turn into someone else, to have her swirl of dark red hair turn long and blonde.  He turned his head to the side, to try to remember the woman he should be mourning, not the woman he himself had lost.

His gaze came to rest on a man standing just outside the door to the kitchen. He was short and stocky, but powerfully built, solid.  He had not dressed for the occasion, wearing black jeans, a pair of cowboy boots and a flannel shirt. He had dark brown hair that was wild and unruly, and old-fashioned mutton chops. He looked like he had just stepped out of the kitchen and was planning on returning in a moment, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an unlit cigar clenched in his fist.  But the look on his face was far from casual.  He looked stricken.  Grief stamped his face more plainly than it had for her husband, and he was looking at Scott across the hall with an expression that was almost guilty. Warren watched him while the Priest rambled on. Abruptly, the man turned to look directly at Warren. Their eyes locked. His face became a mask.  Warren nodded once cautiously to acknowledge him, and the grief that touched them both. The man's eyes narrowed. A swift glance took in Warren's Armani suit, Italian leather shoes and expensive watch.  He spun on his heel and stalked out.  Warren shrugged, ah well; there was no accounting for taste. 

There was a flutter of activity at the front as the Priest stepped down and Xavier moved his wheelchair forward next to the lectern and wheeled it around to face the audience.  Warren turned his attention to his former mentor in a way that he was unable and unwilling to do for the Priest. 

"Jean," Xavier started, "Was one of my first students at this school.  Was in fact the person who inspired me to found this school, to reach out and make more formal my interest in mutant children."  He swallowed.  The moment stretched uncomfortably until he shook his head and smiled sadly, "She was many people's inspiration." Warren's eyes fell on Scott sitting very still, staring straight ahead. Warren knew that a gaze fixed on nothing was the only privacy available in a public space,  "Jean was a doctor, yes, a scientist, a teacher, a daughter, and a fiancé, and yet she was more than that to us. She was the essence of what is good in each of us.  When she saw injustice, in how mutants were treated, she fought back.  Where she saw suffering, she gave comfort.  Her passions, her loves, her expectations of us, drove us to be…better people than we had imagined we could be.  She was not perfect." Xavier let that hang in the air for a moment,  "To remember her as such is to do a disservice to her memory.  She had a fearsome temper.  She was a red head after all," Scattered laughter as people remembered one incident or another where Jean had lost control of that temper, "She was stubborn and she could fail to see the truth when it was presented to her. There were times when she, like all of us, felt powerless, and frozen.  Too overwhelmed by the enormity of the task at hand to have the will to begin to tackle it. And yet, in the end, when a choice had to be made, she found the strength to make it.  Her actions saved the lives of many of the people in this room, including me."  It was suddenly very quiet.  Not many people knew the details of Jean's death.  This was the most that Warren had heard about it, he wondered what had happened.  Wondered if he would get to find out. "If we, in the face of danger can live our lives and make choices with half the bravery that she did, then she will continue to live, inside of each of us."

There was a small silence.  Into that space Ororo stood up, dropping the hands of the two children sitting next to her.  She went to stand next to the professor, a hand on the handle of his chair and began to speak with the honeyed tongue of Byron.  Warren felt tears start up again when he realized which poem Ro had picked.  He let himself cry a little then, remembering Jean this time and not someone else. 

So we'll go no more a roving, 

So late into the night,

Though the heart be ne'er as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword out wears the sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must have its ease,

And love, itself, have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving

The day returns too soon

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon. 

After a perfunctory closing prayer by the priest, the service concluded.  Warren felt a little staggered.  Although it first it had seemed to go on too long, it's swift conclusion left him blinking a little at the transition. 

He got to his feet.  A moment later he was enveloped in a fierce hug and a swirl of white hair.

"It's so good to see you," Ororo exclaimed breathlessly, "I saw you from the podium.  Thank you for being here."  

He could feel her shaking a little in his arms, reaction at the intensity of the emotion in the room.  He squeezed her and let her go, "I didn't believe it when the Professor told me, but I have been proven wrong.  My favorite street rat really has become an English teacher." She flared her nostrils at him warningly.  He didn't heed it, "Too bad you misquoted Byron."

She smacked his arm; outraged "I did not!"

He responded to the hit, rather than to the words, "And now you are abusing the Professor's guest. What kind of role model are you being for today's mutant youth, I wonder?"  She smacked him again.

"I gather zat the two of you know each other?"

It was the blue mutant, Kurt.  Ororo smiled at him, "Yes, Warren was one of the professor's early students. Now he is a very serious businessman who does not have enough time to hang out with his old friends."  She smacked him again, for good measure. Though she meant it in jest, the sting of the truth in her words hurt Warren more than her blows.

Kurt turned a surprised look onto the other man, "You are a mutant too?"  Ororo opened her mouth, then shot Warren a look and closed it again.  Warren nodded one to confirm, but did not elaborate. "Ach," the other man exclaimed, "I am sorry, I do not mean to be rude.  I just assumed…"

"It's okay," Warren said, and then to put the other man at his ease he added quietly, "I have wings."  Kurt got very still and his yellow eyes widened. They flicked to Warren's back, up to his eyes, and then away.  "They fold down well," Warren added, somewhat lamely.  The man nodded absently, then excused himself and walked away.

Warren frowned, puzzled, and a little embarrassed, "What was that about?"

Ororo looked thoughtful, "I'm not… sure.  He just started to live in the mansion and he is still getting used to being around people, I think." She paused and her eyes tracked him as he walked, "Jean and I found him living alone in an abandoned church in Boston.  We all have scars, but my guess is that his run deeper than most."

Over her shoulder Warren could see Scott, still accompanying Elaine looking uncomfortable while she thanked the priest.  He was swaying a little on his feet. "Speaking of scars," he muttered.

Ororo followed his gaze.  She lifted a hand and gestured helplessly, saying nothing.   Warren squeezed her arm and then started to walk over to Scott, steeling himself and trying to catch the man's eye through his visor.  On anyone else they would have been a shield, an affectation to deflect inquiries and pity.  Warren knew better.  If you were never allowed to take off your shades, the space behind your ruby red glasses hardly counted as a place to hide.

Scott appeared to observe Warren's approach disinterestedly.  A bitter half smile flickered over his face, "Have you cancelled all your important business meetings to come to tell me how sorry you are too, War?"

Elaine Grey turned away from the priest, and looked up at Scott, surprised and repulsed, and then to the person Scott was addressing.  With the exception of very red eyes, Elaine did not look any different than he remembered.  Elegantly and expensively dressed, though without what Warren would have called taste; she was perfectly made up, not a hair out of place.  She glanced at Scott disgustedly, then stepped forward to taken Warren's hand and kiss him on the cheek, "Warren, I am so glad you could come."

"Mrs. Grey.  I am so very sorry."

For a moment her façade looked like it was going to crack, then she gained control, "Thank you," she said, more simply than he would have given her credit for. 

Warren looked at Scott, "I didn't come here to fight."

"Why did you come?"

"To say goodbye. And to see you."

Scott's short laugh seemed shocked out of him, "Me? It was always Jean you wanted to see."

"That was a long time ago," Warren kept his voice level. "We were friends first."

Scott's head snapped back and he stared at the other man warily. 

Warren heard the Professor's chair approach, and he began to chat with Elaine and the Priest, distracting attention away from the two men.  Blessing Xavier silently in his head, Warren reached out and gripped Scott's arm, "Come, on.  Let's go get a drink."

It was more than a single drink.  The two of them had wandered down to the boathouse with a bottle of Absolut and a twelve pack of coke. Scott never could hold his liquor and although Warren had the intention of being the caretaker and allowing Scott to unwind, he found himself taking larger and larger swallows as he strove to block out his own multiple layers of grief.  They were both completely hammered well before eleven. 

"Is this what it was like for you?" 

Scott was asking the question.  He was sitting in a chair slumped over the table, head resting on his crossed arms, a glass half empty in front of him.  He had taken his suit jacket and his tie off, and his shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves jammed up to his elbows. Warren, had taken off all that and his dress shirt, and had released his wings from the harness that kept them strapped to his back.  Clad in his dress pants and what Scott laughingly referred to as "wife beater", he had tipped his chair onto two legs and was balancing in it precariously, using his wings as counterbalance. He closed his eyes at the question, swirling his drink round and round in his hand, "What is?"

"The…grief.  Is this what you felt when Candy was…died."

He knew that this question had been coming, it had been coming since Xavier had asked him to stay and try to help Scott, but he did not dread it any less, "Murdered, Scott.  It's okay to say it.  Candy was murdered."

Scott picked up his glass and put it down again, "Sorry.  Murdered."

"You mean feeling like your eyes are never going to stop being swollen because all you do is cry?" He swallowed, "You mean that confusion when you first wake up because you reach for her and she's not there?  Then you remember that's she's dead and it's like a thousand tons come crashing down on your chest. You can't breathe and you don't want to." He shook his head, "You mean, that sense that if you were just dead you could be with her again.  And even if the whole fucking afterlife thing is a joke and you can't, at least being dead would not hurt so much. Not quite so much"

"Oh.  Yeah, I guess it is."

"Yeah."

There was a long silence.  Scott took another drink, "I miss her..." his breath caught in his throat, "…I miss her so damn much.  I don't want to…"Warren lowered his chair, reached his hand across the table and gripped Scott's forearm with the drink in his fist.  Scott's other hand had come up and covered his eyes and he began to cry in great, drunken, choking sobs, but no tears.  No tears for his wife.  The power of his eyes shattered the tears before they could fall behind the ruby quartz. "I don't want to live."

"I know," Warren gripped harder, but let the man cry.  

Too quickly Scott regained control of himself, gulping in air and disentangling his arm from Warren's by taking a drink.  Warren let him pull away, but wasn't willing to let it go.  "I remember how that feels.  If you decide that's what you need to do, I am not going to feed you a line of bullshit about choosing life." Scott stared it him.  Warren gestured with his drink impatiently, "Look, if you want to off yourself I am not going to be able to do a damn thing about it anyway. But I want you to remember one thing before you make your decision.  I don't know exactly what happened on that mission and I don't want you to tell me right now, but Xavier made it sound like Jean died in order to save you."

Scott's voice cracked, "All of us. She saved all of us."

"Maybe so.  But she wanted you to live, Scott.  You.  Her husband, or near enough that it makes no difference. Are you going make her sacrifice meaningless by checking out?"

Scott's knuckles tightened on the edge of his glass.  His jaw clenched, "Fuck you man."

Warren laughed mirthlessly and finished his drink, "No thanks, you're not my type."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

            Warren woke in a strange bedroom.  He wondered for a moment who he had gone home with, but a quick check found the other side of the bed un-slept in and most of his clothes still on. The light in through the windows was brutal and the resulting headache was making it hard for him to think.  Somewhere he heard the sound of kids shouting and the infuriating repeated smack of a basketball on a court.  

            Oh.  He was still at Xavier's. 

            He picked up a pillow and covered his head with it, anything to shut out the noise and the light. He had vague memories of Ororo and the man with the mutton chops helping him maneuver up the stairs.  For some reason he remembered the stench of brimstone, and that someone had stepped on his wing.  It still hurt a little, a fainter counterpoint to the throbbing in his head. 

            When he had been a student in the mansion, he had deliberately chosen a room with a balcony, facing north, so he could fly in and out, but most importantly, so he would not be woken in the morning by the sun.  He wondered if the choice of this room as a guest room was Ororo's deliberate revenge for having to drag his drunken, sorry rear back to the house. 

            The sounds of the students shouting over their game of pickup permeated through his consciousness.  There was no way he was going to be able to get back to sleep.  Gritting his teeth he struggled up out of the sheets and the pillows and staggered into the bathroom.

            A long, hot shower later he emerged feeling more like his usual self. He shivered his wings to shed the last of the water, splattering droplets all over the mirror and tile walls.  He thought about shaving, but didn't have his razor.  He did bless who ever it was who had left a toothbrush so he could scrape the fuzziness off his teeth. 

            Nude, he flung himself down on the bed, spreading his wings out to dry.  Annoyingly, the sun had shifted, its beams were now flung across the wall rather than the mattress, so he could not quite manage to bask in its warmth. The breeze through the window felt divine though.  He reached for his pants and pulled his cell phone off his belt, flipped it open and called home. 

            "Worthington Residence.  Good Morning, Sir."

            "Morning Stevens."

            "I trust you slept well at Mr. Xavier's house?"

            Warren blinked, "Er…yes I did."

            "I have taken the liberty of canceling all your weekend appointments and having a bag sent along with your toiletries and several changes of cloths.  Has it arrived yet?"

            "Oh.  No I don't think I…" Warren's eyes came to rest on a brown leather bag sitting just inside the door of the guest room.  Still clutching the phone to his ear he got up and unzipped the top.  Clothes.  Bag with toiletries.  There was even a razor.  "I take that back.  Yes, the bag is here."

            "Very good.  Is there anything else I can do for you?"  

             "No, I guess not," Warren shook his head, "Stevens, how do you do that?"

            "We all have our trade secrets, Sir."

            Warren closed the phone.  He was grateful for both the clean clothes and the presence of people like Stevens in his life.  He thought about Scott waking up to a similarly empty bed, but with no one to talk to and no one to call, and his self-satisfaction sluiced away.  

Dumping out the bag he sorted though the clothing, picked out clean underwear, pants and socks, but was mildly annoyed to find that his wing harness was nowhere in sight.  A quick search of the room failed to reveal it or his suit jacket, shirt and tie.  He assumed that they must still be in the boathouse, on the chair where he had laid them. Rubbing his temples he briefly considered what to do.  His shirts would not confine his wings without the harness to keep them in place.   He thought about flying to the boathouse to pick it up, but knew that Professor Xavier tried to keep as low a profile in the neighborhood as he could.  It was daylight and a flying angel would be sure to be seen, and the general level of queasiness he was feeling did not lend itself well to even a short flight. Additionally, he was uncomfortable walking around in front of people he did not know without his wings firmly hidden under his clothing. His mutation was a secret, or at least it was supposed to be. The public persona of Warren Worthington the III did not involve a 16-foot wingspan. On the other hand, he was at the school.  If there were one place on the planet where he could reveal his mutation to strangers without fear of revulsion or of having his secret revealed, it would be here.  He picked up the undershirt he had been wearing the night before, but it smelled like spilled rum and coke and sweat.  He shuddered and put it down before his stomach could rebel.  Ok, so no shirt either.

 Cursing his constitution, his lack of judgment and his partial nakedness, he steeled himself to leave the room bare-chested. It made him feel vulnerable to be wandering around without a shirt on, but he was not sure he had any other option.  Temporarily eschewing the chance to shave in order to postpone his decision, he cracked the door and peered through the opening.  No one in sight.  Sure enough, he was in the east wing. Damn Ororo. He picked up one of the clean shirts, shut the door behind him and set off to pick up his harness, locate Scott and find something to settle his stomach, in that order. 

            To get from his guest room to the kitchen he had to pass the common room.  It was obvious from the noise level that the room was not empty.  Warren remembered many Saturday mornings in the common room ensconced on the couch watching kung fu movies with Scott and Henry and then trying out those moves later in the danger room, a tactic that usually got them either damaged or in trouble with the Professor. It sounded like the Saturday morning tradition had changed only slightly.  The lush orchestral music of a Japanese style video game came clearly from the television.

            He silently padded by the open doorway, sneaking a peek to see if Scott was in there.  He wasn't, but his passage was immediately noted. An enormously tall, well built boy with dark hair who had been watching the video game perched on a window ledge shot to his feet.  His startled movement alerted the rest of the children that there was something wrong.  The girl lounging on the couch, the one who had hung up his coat the night before, threw herself across the floor and vanished into a wall.  One of the videogame players, a younger kid with braces, cowered under a table, while the other player, Bobby, struggled to his feet to face what had spooked them. 

            Warren threw up his hands, "Whoa! Don't panic! I'm a friend."

            "Who are you," demanded the dark headed boy in a thick Russian accent.

            Bobby looked like he was trying to not appear quite as frightened as he actually was, "It's okay, Peter.  I know him. He's one of Professor Xavier's old students.  He was at the…" Bobby took a deep breath and let it out, "…memorial service last night.  This is Mr. Worthington."

            Warren winced at the moniker, "Call me Warren. I'm not that old.  Or scary."

            The kid under the table poked his head out, "You have wings," he breathed.

            "Neal," snapped Bobby, "That isn't polite."

            Warren felt embarrassment wash over him and cursed again the missing harness, "I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized, "I was looking for Scott." Blank looks, "Er… Mr. Summers."

            Peter relaxed, "He's in the kitchen."

            "Thanks."

            As he walked away he could hear a fist pounding the wall and Neal calling out, "Kitty! You can come out now."

            Warren pushed the door open to the kitchen and stopped, appalled. Bullet holes had shattered the expensive wood of the kitchen cabinets, climbing the walls in a spray pattern.  There were holes chipped in the tile countertops and in the floor. It looked like there were even claw marks, huge gouges in the face of the stainless steel fridge.  Boards had been put up over several shattered windows. A chair from the dining hall had been drawn up in front of the coffee machine and Scott Summers sat in front of it, nursing a large mug.  The blue mutant, Kurt, perched on a stool in front of the butcher block with a plate of scrambled eggs, tail curled around the stool for balance. The smell of the food made Warren both nauseous and hungry. 

            "What the hell happened here," he demanded.

            Scott, dressed in pajama bottoms and a faded gray t-shirt glared at him from behind his sleeping goggles, "Not so loud."

            Warren winced, "Sorry.  You too, huh?"

            Scott shrugged.  Kurt was staring at Warren with narrowed eyes. Neither was answering his question. Warren sighed, but lowered his voice, "What happened?"

            "William Stryker and his goons," Scott answered shortly, "The school was invaded while most of the faculty were away."  Scott leaned his head against the kitchen cabinet, "Ororo and Jean were tracking down Kurt in Boston.  The professor and I were visiting Magneto in his plastic prison. The only one here was Logan.  The kids handled themselves pretty well, but Stryker captured some of them and they…" he shuddered, " Never mind, it's a long story."

            Kurt used his tail to shove another stool towards Warren.  He sat down on it carefully, certain that his knees would not hold him up any longer, "That explains the reaction I just got.  When?"

            Kurt held up a bowl, "Eggs?" he offered brightly, but locked eyes with Warren and imperceptibly shook his head.

            Warren's stomach rolled in protest, but he took the hint, "Yes please.  Thank you."

            "What reaction?" Kurt asked politely, dishing out eggs onto a plate.  Without asking he slid over 2 slices of unbuttered toast as well. 

            Warren looked at the plate of food and picked up a fork, but hesitated to put the first bite in his mouth.  Scott wasn't eating anything either, he noted.  "I came around the corner and they freaked.  Neal hid under a table.  Kitty dove through a wall. Nice mutation, that. I damn near gave Bobby and Peter a heart attack."  
            Scott frowned, his tactician's mind already turning over the criticism "Neal's only 12.  Give him a break.  Kitty did the right thing, which was making herself inaccessible to the enemy.  Peter can take care of himself; his body is made of organic steel.  Bobby could have probably frozen you where you stood."

            Warren's wings went ridged with sudden anger, "My point, Mr. School Teacher, is that your kids are spooked.  You have been thinking this whole time that only the X-Men were legitimate targets. That is no longer true.  You need to teach them, even the 12 year olds, some escape and evade survival techniques and something of how to defend themselves.  Because the next guy who breaks in here is not going to give Neal a break."

            Scott's jaw clenched, "Don't tell me how to run this school."

"Then run it right!"

Scott slammed his mug down, "What right do you have waltzing in here telling us what to do when it was you who left us six years ago?"

Warren bit his tongue to keep himself from saying the obvious.  Scott took the opportunity to stalk out of the kitchen. 

Kurt put his fork down, "I thought that Professor Xavier told me that the two of you vere old friends."

 "We are.  We just disagree about everything."

Kurt looked at the angel carefully, "You have… an interesting way of showing how much you care about him."

Warren sighed and rolled his shoulder to get his wings to relax again, "The key to Scott is to challenge him.  If I can get him to think more about how to teach, train and prepare the kids, he will spend less time thinking about creative ways to kill himself."

"As I said, it is an interesting way."

It was a warm day for fall, and the sky was clear.  Perhaps it was because of the warmth, or perhaps because it was one of the last few precious Saturdays before the temperature began to drop, but all of the windows to the mansion were open. Open enough that Ororo, shovel in hand and dirt up to her elbows, heard raised voices coming from the kitchen followed by the slamming of a door.  Alarmed she looked up through the window under which she was digging to see Scott take angry strides through the dining hall towards the front hallway.  He slowed, paused just before he crossed the threshold to the hall, and leaned against the doorpost, shoulders shaking. Ororo felt her heart turn over again for her friend.  She thought about putting down her trowel and going to comfort him, but knew that his pride would not allow for it.  A moment later, stiffening his spine and showing no sign that he had faltered, he strode down the hall, heading for Xavier's office. 

The sunlight had faded while she watched him.  She looked up guiltily and banished the clouds that her own emotions had gathered overhead.  After a moment they dissipated, spinning their way backwards into nothingness.  She returned her mind to the task at hand, digging up the spent and broken summer annuals and replanting with a profusion of cheerful fall colored mums.  In the invasion of the mansion, Striker and his men had not just wrecked large portions of the inside of the mansion; they had trampled much of Ororo's careful landscaping. Compared to the danger that the children had been in, and to the magnitude of Jean's death, it was a little thing, but it made her angry enough to weep.  There had been so many other problems that needed dealing with once they had returned to the school that she had been forced to wait two weeks since she had discovered the damage to be able to find the time to sink her hands back into the soil.

Another door banged open, but the sound this time was to her left.  After a moment she saw a shirtless Warren stalking down the path to the boathouse, looking almost as angry as Scott had been.

Which explained a lot. 

His wings caught the sunlight and absorbed it, feathers ruffling gently in the breeze.  Ororo had known Warren too long to be sexually stirred by the man's appearance, but she was honest enough with herself to admit that he was a lovely piece of eye candy.  She watched the way the muscles in his back shifted and flowed under his skin with each step.  She wondered how long he was going to stay, how long it would be before he was the subject of mutant teen daydreams.  Judging from how sharply Dani and Marie had just sat up from their sunbathing, not very long.  Ororo shrugged and went back to planting.  It would hardly be the first time that Warren had left a trail of broken hearts in the downbeat of his white wings.

A shadow fell across her.  She looked up into the dazzling sun to see the dark silhouette of a demon, blocking her light.

"Hello Kurt."

The mutant squatted down, curing his tail around his drawn up knees, "Can I help?"

She smiled, "I don't know, can you?"

He shrugged, "Probably not." He extended a thick fingered hand, "I am afraid I hav a blue thumb."

Ororo's lips twitched, "Your English is getting better if you can manage to make a pun like that and I don't kill you."

His face broke into a wide smile, all yellow fangs and yellow eyes in a scarred blue face, "Thank you.  I hav been listening to the students." 

"Hmmm. That is unlikely to improve your English."

"_Ja_. I hope not."

She laughed.  In spite of everything else she laughed.

Kurt looked very pleased with himself, "I vant to fit in.  I like it here. Do you think the professor will let me stay?"

"I think you should ask him yourself."

He bobbed his head up and down, "I know. I am just…"

"Afraid?"

He shrugged, "_Ja._"

"You were not so afraid at Alkali Lake."

He shook his head, thought about it.  "I was afraid.  But, once you explained to me that we had no choice, fear became… irrelevant. I put my faith in God and acted. Talking to the Professor is different." 

She planted her trowel in the dirt, "How?"

"I hav been a mutant all my life.  I learned to control my powers early.  I am too old to be student here.  Yet, I have not been to school.  There is nothing I have to teach the children.  I hav nothing I can offer in exchange for staying."  He picked up some of the earth, sifted it through his hands, "But since Stryker captured me and forced me to attack ze President, I do not know that I would hav anywhere else to go.  At least not in the U.S.  I am not safe if I stay.  I don't think I can go back to the Circus either.  That way is closed.  I am stuck, I think."

Ororo handed him the trowel, "Dig," she ordered. He took it, surprised, "You are worrying about nothing. The Professor is not going to kick you out into the street."

"He won't?"

"No."

"Oh," He was silent a moment, turning the spade over and over in his hand, "Not even if I pick up more American slang from his students?"

"I won't tell him," she held up a plant still in its pot, "Mum's the word."  
            He immediately looked blank, "What?"

Ororo found herself having to explain horticulture, which killed the pun but not, surprisingly, her mood. 


	3. Chapter 3

            Warren managed to retrieve his wing harness and the rest of his clothes from the boathouse.  The smell of liquor was strong and he made a mental note to tell Ororo to send someone down to clean up the mess that he and Scott had made.   He was getting ready to walk out the door, harness and clean shirt on, tie and suit jacket flung over his arm when his brain finally processed that last thought.  Suddenly furious with himself for reverting to type he set his clothes down and began rummaging under the sink for a sponge and some cleaning supplies.  It was more than an hour later before his temper cooled, but by that time the boathouse was so clean that Warren imagined that even he could have cheerfully eaten off of the floor. 

The thought of food made him ravenous and picking up the clothes he had come down to collect, he pulled the door shut behind him.  Lunch at the mansion was in full swing when he peered into the dining room.  He had wondered, now that the student body was roughly six times what it was when he attended school there, how Xavier handled meals. 

He wasn't certain how it was during the week, but on a Saturday afternoon it was cheerful pandemonium.  Someone had laid out sandwich fixings on the sideboard, but very informally, meat and cheese slices still in their plastic bags, bottles of condiments placed haphazardly near the four or five loaves of bread.  The students and teachers were helping themselves, chatting animatedly and sitting wherever they pleased.  

Someone had, mercifully, removed the bouquets.  He wondered where they had gone. 

As he stepped into the dining room conversation suddenly stalled as his presence registered, and then started up again at a lower volume.  A set of girls including Kitty and Bobby's girlfriend started whispering to each other and staring at him. He suddenly felt very self-conscious and he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin.  

"Warren," Ororo was calling from what looked like the teacher's table, or at least the adult's table.  Scott was sitting with his back to Warren, hunched over and picking at his food, but present.  'Ro was sitting across the table from him, next to Kurt.  Next to Scott, to his left was the man with the muttonchops. Warren waved back, grateful to look for a moment like he belonged there, and went to fill his plate. 

            Feeling slightly guilty that he had started out the day shouting at Scott rather than helping him like he had promised the professor, he deliberately sat down on the other side of him.  Scott grunted in recognition. Good.  At least he had cooled off a little.  'Ro introduced him to Muttonchops.

            "Warren, this is Logan.  He helped me carry you back from the boathouse last night."  Warren winced. Ororo's vengeance was complete. So much for feeling like he belonged.

            On the other side of Scott's hunched back Logan locked eyes with him and nodded once, a sardonic half smile playing around the unlit stogie in his teeth. 

            "Thanks," Warren offered weakly.  The man shrugged in return.  Scott started to laugh. 

            "Don't be so smug," Ororo shot back, "We carried Warren back while Kurt was teleporting you to your bedroom because you were too drunk to stand."  Scott and Warren shared a rueful grin: a 'Ro lecture after they had done something wrong together.  It was almost like old times.  She lowered her voice, but her tone remained scolding, "I can understand the need to unwind after yesterday, but I am going to ask that drunken carousing not become a daily occurrence.  What kind of example are you setting for the children?" Scott opened his mouth, but she barreled on over his objections, "And don't give me a line about it being a secret.  The walls have ears around here, quite literally in some cases.  No secret is kept forever in this school.  Whatever you do is seen.  Is that understood?"

            "'Ro. Give it a rest," it was, surprisingly, Logan. 

            She looked annoyed to have her tirade interrupted, and turned her glare towards the other man.  Logan, however, could not be stared down, and after a moment she sniffed and looked away.  He grinned.

            Scott was staring up at the ceiling, "Do you remember the time that Henry distilled tequila in the lab?"

            Warren, startled, started to helplessly laugh, "Oh my God!  Yurt!"

            "Yurt Olympics," Scott answered

            "Yurt-o-rama!"

            Ororo smiled, in spite of herself, "Discount Yurt City!"

            Kurt looked at the three of them bemusedly.  Logan chewed on his cigar. 

            Warren launched into an extravagant explanation of how a bottle of home made tequila and an illicit drunken evening gave rise to an unholy fascination with the word yurt.  Kurt failed to get it.  Logan just looked bored.

            Ororo shook her head, "Henry was so sick.  I don't think he drinks to this day."

            Warren shuddered, "It took me 4 years before I could even smell tequila again without wanting to puke."  Logan grinned at that, contempt in the smile.

            "Jean was so mad at me…" Scott was looking up at the ceiling again, his voice suddenly far away.

            Their shared amusement abruptly vanished.  Ororo looked down, defeated.  No memory was safe.  She was everywhere. 

            Kurt locked eyes with Warren, asked Scott deliberately, "Hav you seen the professor this morning?"

            Scott pulled himself back to the table, "Huh?  Oh, yes."

            "Do you know if he is available this afternoon?"

            Scott frowned, "Actually no.  He said he had to use Cerebro.  That's why he's not here now."

            "Oh."  Now it was the blue man's turn to look defeated.  Warren wondered what was on his mind.  When Ororo reached down and squeezed Kurt's hand, he managed to keep a raised eyebrow to himself. 

            "I did get to talk to him about developing a physical training program for the children," Scott continued slowly.  Warren's attention snapped back to him warily. "He agreed that it was a good idea."  Scott let that register for a moment.  Warren kept the self-satisfied grin off his face.  He recognized that this was the closest that he was going to get to an apology from the man.  Knew also that he had scored a minor victory in the complex sparring match of their friendship.  Scott turned his attention to his left, "Logan, is that something that you would be interested in heading up?"

            Logan looked like he had been smacked in the face with a board, "Huh?"

            "Would you be interested in developing a self defense program for the kids?  Martial arts.  Physical stamina. Dirty tricks."

            "Now wait a minute…"

            "I can't think of anyone better than you to teach the children how to stay alive."

            Ororo clapped her hands, "I think that's a wonderful idea!"

            Logan scowled, "I'm not a teacher.  And half the kids are so scared of me that they pee their pants!"

            Scott grinned by showing his teeth, "Then you will hardly have a discipline problem, will you?"

"I hadn't planned on sticking around."

There was a short silence.  Apparently, this was news.  Ororo looked purposefully sorrowful, "That's too bad.  I don't know what people like Marie are going to do if the school gets invaded again.  She could learn to be more aggressive."  
            Logan's eyes flicked across the room and then back to Ororo, "She shouldn't be in any fights at all!"

"I agree," said Scott, "But she may not always have a choice in the matter.  Would you rather her be trained by me or by you?"

            Logan lowered his eyebrows and chewed furiously on his cigar. Warren knew Scott had won, but his friend did not look like he was certain it was an argument he actually wanted to win.  He wondered why.  Logan relented, "I can't teach Marie.  She… I mean there are only some things I can teach her.  She's better suited for escape and evade techniques than relying on brute strength."

            Kurt shot upright in his chair, "Ven I was with the Munich Circus I was known as the Incredib…"  
            Ororo cut him off, excitedly, "Of course!  You were an acrobat, weren't you?"

            "Yes, I was known as…"  
            Ororo turned to Scott, "Kurt could teach Marie and some of the others who are not ready for Logan yet.  Especially some of the younger kids, like Neal."

            "I was going there next.  You beat me to it."

            "In fact," Ororo continued, excited, "We could all use a little cross training in the danger room."

            Scott turned his head slightly to look at Logan the same moment that Logan glanced at Scott.

"No way," both men blurted at the same time.

"A great teacher once told me that everyone has something to teach and everyone has something to learn," Warren interjected around a bite of his sandwich.

Scott's lips thinned.  Warren knew that Scott hated to have his own words thrown back at him, so it pleased him to be the one to be able to do it.

Logan started to make his point with the end of his cigar, "Yeah but…"

"Nightcrawler!"

The rest of the conversation stopped. Everyone turned to look at Kurt, who was looking very proud of himself. He continued deliberately, slowly, meeting their eyes, "Ven I was with the Munich Circus I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler.  I can teach your students how to get away."

**********

The rest of the afternoon was spent in one of the classrooms, hashing out schedules, lesson plans and sorting students into training groups based on need and mutation.  By unspoken accord they had tabled the discussion of cross training each other in fighting techniques. Warren, who was not faculty or even newly dubbed faculty, maintained his right to be part of the discussion because it was his idea.  This was a bit of a white lie, but did not see the necessity of throwing his weight around right then, or of possibly wounding Scott's pride. Additionally, it was fun to watch Scott and Logan bristle at each other, like two dogs that weren't sure they liked the way each other smelled. Warren was pleased to note that although it was clear Scott did not care for Logan, he was professional enough to do what was best for his students and work with the man. The conversation was also, he hoped, successfully keeping Scott's mind off of Jean. Whenever he seemed too distant, too removed from the conversation one of the other four would leap in with a direct question to Scott, dragging him away from his thoughts.  It seemed to be working, but it was exhausting. Warren did not know how long they were going to be able to keep it up. 

Dinner found the five of them back at the same table hammering out details and arguing whether or not the children should be allowed to train in the danger room.  Though they tried to keep their voices low by this time the students had sensed that some new change was afoot.  Although they seemed skittish about actually sitting at the teacher's table, the other tables closest were filled with students who were trying not to look like they were listening while drinking in every word.  Bobby and Peter were not even bothering to hide that they were snooping, watching the tennis match of the adult's discussion with unrestrained glee.   
            Without warning a sharp mental call cut through the conversation, **X-Men!  Meet me in the Danger Room, now please.**

The group's demeanor changed instantly, the entire table scrambled to their feet.  So too, a short distance away, did Bobby, a look of shocked comprehension on his face.  

His girlfriend, Marie, Warren remembered from the afternoon's discussion, clutched his hand, "Bobby, what is it?"

"The professor wants me to go on a mission."  Peter looked crushed; Marie, suddenly frightened. 

Kurt Wagner was already swinging down the hall towards the elevator via tinkling chandeliers, followed by Ororo and Logan on the ground.  Scott shrugged insincerely at Warren, "Sorry.  Hope you don't mind babysitting.  There must be an emergency; the Professor wants us below, now."

            Warren flashed the X-Men's field commander a wicked smile, before he took off after the rest "I know.  I got the summons as well."

**********

Warren skidded to a stop at the elevator an instant before Scott.  The two of them jostled each other as they stepped into it, Bobby a breathless step behind. Ororo hit the button and the door slid shut behind them. Scott glared at Warren from behind his visor.  Warren tried to look professional and impassive, though the temptation to display his smugness was strong.  He knew that the other man was angry and confused that the Professor would include Warren in a call to the X-Men. What right did he have to be included when he had walked away from the team all those years ago?  He didn't need to be a telepath to figure out what Scott was thinking.  The fact that his father's business had needed him was never enough of a reason for Scott. The elevator came to a stop and the door opened.  The X-Men tumbled out.

            The Professor met them in the hallway, motoring his chair toward them.  They gathered around him in a semi circle.  He looked tired, as he sometimes did after using Cerebro for long periods of time.  Warren abruptly began to wonder about the effect of Jean's death on the old man. 

"As you all know," Xavier started,  "There are some things brewing on the political landscape that may require us to spread ourselves more thinly than we are used to.  Unfortunately it appears that events have moved more swiftly than I had anticipated."  He smiled wanly, "Warren, I am going to ask you to help us today, if you will." Warren nodded once.  Inclusion in the mental summons had prepared him to hear such a request, and he was disinclined to say no to almost anything this man asked of him in an emergency, especially now.   "The X-Men are required on two different fronts at once. Cyclops, I will need you, Nightcrawler, Iceman, and Wolverine to take the Blackbird to New Mexico.  Magneto, St. John Allerdyce and some mutants I am not familiar with are heading towards Area 51. I need to know why they are going there and what they are doing.  Cyclops, you will need to use your best judgment as to whether you let them get away with whatever it is that they are planning.  Additionally, Iceman, I would like you to see if you can convince Pyro to return with you all to the School.  This is the only reason why I am sending you on this mission. I want you to be very careful."  

"I will, Sir."

"Nightcrawler," his face softened, as he took in the other man's eagerness, "This is a test run of sorts.  Cyclops and I would like to consider you for the team, if you are interested.  We wanted to talk to you in person before we sent you out, but we appear to have run out of time."

Kurt pulled himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest, "The Incredible Nightcrawler will not fail you."

He turned his attention back to Scott, "All the information that I know has already been loaded onto the shipboard computer. There will be plenty of time to review it in the air.  I suggest you get changed and leave now." Wolverine turned on his heel and marched down the hall to the locker room.  Nightcrawler and Iceman rushed to follow him, the boy looking both proud and nervous.  Scott held his ground.  As field commander he had the right and the need to know what the rest of his team would be doing without him. "Storm and Angel, I need you to go to Rhode Island.  There is a mutant there who is shortly going to be in some trouble.  I would like you to get her out of it and see if you can convince her to come back to the school with you.  Angel, I have taken the liberty of having a uniform made for you that should fit, at least according to your tailor."

            Warren shook his head at the perfidious collusion of his former mentor and one of his most trusted servants, "I swear that man has more secrets than I do." He saw that Scott was frowning and inwardly winced.  No time to try to soothe ruffled feathers, he would have to leave that up to Xavier.

            Ororo asked the question that Warren was too polite to voice, "Why choose us?"

            "Many reasons, but the main one is that the Blackbird is going to New Mexico at the same time that you need to be in Rhode Island, and in the interest of speed, you both can fly."

            Warren pulled out his cell phone and flipped open the lid, "Is that all? I can save us both the effort. I can have the Falcon flown to the Westchester County Airport from JFK in half an hour."       

            It was more than half an hour.  In fact it took forty-seven minutes for the jet to arrive, which Ororo took great pains to point out to him in her sweetest, you-are-being-an-arrogant-show-off voice.  Warren, grinning for all he was worth, slid into the pilots seat and settled his wings over the top of the chair with a sigh.  He reminded her delicately of the amount of time it usually took her to get ready to go out dancing as she carefully stepped around the spill of white feathers on the floor of the cabin and buckled herself into the co-pilot's seat.  Sniffing with distain she handed him the co-ordinates of T.F. Green Airport in Providence.

***********

Mina finished up her number with a shimmy and a flourish.  Half the patrons applauded wildly with much catcalling and hooting of appreciation.  The other half of the audience appeared to be too distracted by the sensual atmosphere her dancing had created and were kissing their dates passionately. Mina smiled at them, score one for her, and stepped off the stage.  The stage at the Black Glove was more of a platform really, with no proper backstage, so still smiling she had to step down the front staircase before wrapping herself in a sheer chiffon veil.  Chris the bouncer handed her a cup of water before mounting the steps to pick up the money that some of the more enthusiastic members of the audience had thrown at her during her performance.  It was bad manners for a dancer to pick up her own tips, and she told Scratch that when he'd hired her. She could see him across the room talking to a dark haired, serious faced man who kept shooting her sultry glances.  Scratch smiled and gave her the thumbs up sign and a wink.  Good. He was happy with her performance. With any luck this one shot gig would turn into a more permanent thing.  She didn't need the money as much as she needed the legitimacy of a job.  When Chris handed her the tips from the dance floor, she made sure to give him a cut, anything to stay in the good graces of the regular staff. She was vividly aware, now that she was rolling that phrase around in her head, of the irony that being an exotic belly dancer in a swingers club was more legitimate than her real job.  Well, it was more legitimate as far as the government was concerned, and that's all that mattered right now, leaving an innocent seeming trail behind her. 

She chatted amicably with couples that had not yet retired to one of the themed rooms for more private sport, answering questions mostly from the women about how she got started belly dancing and where they could take lessons.  That brought her up short.  She had not considered actually teaching belly dance as a legitimate job, it was just this skill that she had picked up from her mother, part of her cultural heritage that she had tweaked a little to make it look more exotic. It was something to think about.  She filed it away and kept moving, mingling with the guests who were now beginning to start dancing, slow and sensual.  One attractive couple, a tall buxom brunette and a taller man with laugh lines and gray beginning to show at his temples asked her if she wanted to join them in the jungle room.  The air was electric and half stirred herself Mina, almost reluctantly turned them down, "I'm on duty," she offered with an apologetic smile. The woman laughed and said duty had never stopped Scratch before, but they took the rejection good-naturedly and wandered off looking for a more willing partner. 

            The dance floor was slowly clearing, people moving in twos, threes and fours towards more lively entertainment. The man who had been talking with Scratch crossed the room towards her. 

            "That was a very sensual dance," he started, "Where did you learn to do that?"

            Since this was the fourth time she had been asked tonight, and because she was not interested in going to bed with this man she blunted her answer, "Afghanistan."

            The man smiled winningly, "Is that where you are from?  I did not realize that the Afghani women had such beautiful green eyes."

            "Yes," Mina answered the question, not the comment, "My family left in the wake of the invasion.  The Russian invasion."  She glanced nervously at the double French doors where the last of the partygoers had vanished through.  She could see them laughing and talking on the other side of the glass  Now she was alone with the man. This was supposed to be a couple's night, where was this guy's partner? 

The man followed her gaze to the door, frowned and then stepped back a pace from her. "I'm sorry, I am not trying to make you uncomfortable.  I really do only want to talk." 

            Mina was surprised, "You must be the only one then," she indicated the sounds of partying that were rapidly becoming louder on the other side of the door.

            The man shrugged, "Please don't be offended.  I am interested in you but not that way." Mina blinked.  Funny, although he appeared a touch effeminate, he hadn't set off her gaydar. "My employer has sent me to contact you, Miss Abdul-Salaam."

            Mina's eyes widened and she took a step back. The man was between her and the door.  Mina lowered her voice to a furious whisper, "How do you know my name? Are you a cop?"

            The man laughed mirthlessly, "Hardly."

            "'Hardly' is not a no. Are you a cop?"

"No."

"Then who are you and what do you want?"

            "Who I am is not important," the man replied smoothly. "Who I represent is more to the point.  Magneto has heard of your talent and your political… opinions.  He believes that he can help you make your dreams a reality."

            Mina felt her jaw go slack with shock.  Although she did not watch television or read the papers she knew who Magneto was.  Everyone knew who Magneto was. "I don't know what you are talking about," she denied automatically.

            The man smiled again, "Come now Amina, Magneto does his research extremely well.  Your work in the activist community and your views on human overpopulation are well known in the underground.  It wasn't until recently that he became aware of your mutation, but he thinks that you would be a fine team member of an organization called the Brotherhood of Mutants."

             Mina blinked, "I see.  You are here as a recruiter. Looking for more mutants to join Magneto's cause.  What exactly are you here to offer me?"

            The man moved swiftly into a bargaining position "A spot on the team, living quarters safer than your current shack in the woods, all your expenses paid for, and a chance to make your vision of a world free from the scourge of Homo sapiens a reality."

            Shock gave way to a slowly building fury, "My vision…? You think… he thinks that's what I…", Mina was so angry it took her a moment to regain her coherence.  She stepped forward and pace and leveled a finger at the man. " How dare you! You don't have the first fucking idea what I believe in.  Just how did you plan on getting a world free from human destruction?  Destroy them?  Well that's a grand plan, 'Start a new era of peace and prosperity on earth', by destroying the humans.  I'm sure that will work.  Level their tyrannical power structure by placing your own smack on top? Oh yeah, that's original.  Only every revolution in the past ten thousand years has tried that same trick, and failed. A revolution that gives power back to the few is not a revolution.  It's a change in government!   You want me to join forces with a guy that is responsible for the murder of hundreds of people and has plans to murder thousands, billions more?" Mina gave the man a withering stare, "If you actually believe the line of bullshit that Magneto has been feeding you, the two of you probably deserve each other. I don't waste my time with "visionaries" who wouldn't know a vision if came up and bit them on the ass.  Go back to Magneto and tell him thanks, but no thanks."  Mina brushed past the man on the way out the door.  Her hands were shaking with anger and fear.  She hoped that the man would be too shocked to try to stop her from leaving. 

            No such luck. 

            The man grabbed Mina by the arm and spun her around. Mina, expecting a blow raised her other hand to defend herself, but no blow fell.  With horrified fascination she watched as the image of the man that held her blurred and shifted.  From top to bottom the man's hair shortened and turned red, his eyes turned golden yellow, and his skin took on an alarming shade of midnight blue.  As the change progressed down the body the he became a she, a naked she with what looked like scales running down her blue skin.  The woman, the mutant, smiled. 

            Mina's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped in the woman's grasp.  The blue mutant briefly lost her grip on Mina as her weight pulled her body out of her hands.  Immediately Mina was up in a flash and running towards the doors. The woman swore and cart wheeled through the air after her. 

            Mina pulled one of the French doors open and flung herself through. Abruptly it slammed shut on her leg.  Mina cried out in pain, sprawling on the floor.  Though the glass she could see that the woman had landed feet first on the windows.  Several of the panes had cracked with the impact, but that did not keep Mina from seeing the woman lick her lips in anticipation.

            Chris the bouncer was running at her from across the play room.  Mina could see several couples already engaged in the act of love frozen in surprise at the unexpected violence. Next to her there was a tree in a pot covered in Christmas tree lights.  Mina reached for her power and… 

            The plant was plastic. 

            Cursing Scratch's decorating style for all she was worth, Mina kicked at the door to free her leg.  The woman opened it to come after her.  Mina staggered to her hands and knees, tripping over her veil and her long belly dance skirt, and scrambled towards the front door.  Out.  She had to get out. 

            Chris intercepted the woman at the door.  She could hear Scratch shouting, and the sounds of a scuffle behind her but she didn't look around in favor of crawling towards the exit as fast as she could go. Reaching the door she pulled herself onto her feet by the doorknob.  Opening the door to the reception area she glanced behind her. Chris was flying through the air.  He landed on top of the table covered with artistic black and white coffee table porn. The table splintered underneath his weight.  The mutant was turning to see where Mina had gone. Mina bolted through the doorway.

            The door banged into Mike, who had been acting as host in the reception area and who had been coming to investigate the shouting. He staggered back and grabbed the door for support. She dodged around him, no mean feat since he was a former football player and took up most of the entry way.  Exit way.  Only one more door until she was outside.  The sounds behind her were getting louder; she felt the reverberations of a body hitting the wooden floor, she thought she heard choking. Her hands were shaking so hard they seemed like they belonged to someone else. She pulled the last door open.

            The night air hit her like a slap.  The crispness of fall made her skin feel flushed from the heat of the club. Unlike a normal club, the Black Glove was not in a busy trendy section of Providence, but nestled discretely in a warehouse park on the outskirts of the city.  It's location there helped keep the membership secret and kept the uninitiated from stumbling in upon something they did not want to see. It also meant that with the exception of a line of cars, the street was deserted. No help in sight. There were scrub bushes growing up out of a vacant lot about 500 yards away, she turned right out of the door and ran.  She realized two things almost immediately.  She had left her sandals inside, and her leg was not going to be able to hold any weight for very long.

            Hobbling, stumbling, the asphalt was sharp and sticky under her feet, she heard the door bang open behind her. There was a pause and then running footsteps followed her.  She glanced over her shoulder.  Mike was pelting after her.

            "Mina!"  He called out, "Come back here!"

            It took a little while for the fact that it was Mike, not the mutant, who was now chasing after her to register.  Mina began to slow, she turned a little to look at him.  Just then the door opened again.  Mike staggered out of the building.  He had a hand to his head and he was bleeding profusely from a scalp wound.  He looked straight at Mina and shook his head.  Mina looked quickly between the Mike standing at the door and the Mike who was still coming towards her. Her brain refused to make those two things come into agreement.  She turned again and ran. The Mike who was not bleeding swore and sprinted after her. 

            The wind suddenly picked up, rain began to spatter the road ahead of her.  The bushes in the vacant lot swayed in the strengthening wind.  Mina reached again, praying she was close enough, praying to a god she no longer believed in.  So close, so close…

            Mike tackled her.  Mina felt her face bounce off the asphalt, the skin on her belly and legs scraping painfully against the ground.  She struggled to turn over, to fight her attacker, but Mike – no, the shape shifter, held her down with a knee to her back.  "Magneto does not usually take "no" for an answer," she hissed, the words coming out with Mike's voice.  It was raining now and the wind whipped up with unusual force.  It made the leaves on the bushes sound like whispering.  Mina closed her eyes and reached.

 A tendril of ivy shot out of the ground in the empty lot, flung itself across the street, wrapped itself around the mutant's head and yanked her backwards off of Mina.  She shifted back to her blue shape to try to wriggle free.  The ivy wound tighter.

Mina rolled over, "Tell him he needs to learn that no means no," she gasped.

Abruptly three silver claws shot out of the knuckles of the mutant's hands.  She slashed the vine to pieces.  Mina scrabbled backwards on hands and feet. The mutant advanced on her, still with claws drawn, a smile of anticipation on her lips. 

**********

"Now, Storm!" Angel said, "You won't get a better chance." Storm was already raising her hands. The air crackled around them.  Angel pumped his wings to stay aloft in the shifting air currents, peering down at the drama playing out below them. 

Faster than thought he was blinded by an intense blue flash, and a near instantaneous BOOM.

            When Angel could see again he saw Mystique lying 20 feet from where she had been standing, curled up on her side in a fetal position, tendrils of smoke swirling from her body.   The girl in a belly dance costume, the mutant they were looking for, was now lying on her stomach, her veil in tattered pulpy filaments on the ground around her.  The smell of ozone was strong.  Angel swooped down and alighted on the ground next to her.  The rain began to slack off.  Without moving her he touched her neck, checking for a pulse.  Storm alighted next to him, "I don't think I hit her," she said worriedly.

            He felt the beat, fast but faint under his fingers. Angel shook his head, "I don't think you did either," he said. The sound of a siren started up in the distance.  Storm glanced over at the door to the warehouse the girl had come out of.  The man was still standing there bleeding from his head, his jaw slack from shock.  Angel followed her gaze. "Time to be scarce," he suggested.  Storm nodded.  He reached down and lifted the girl in his arms.  She was more muscular than she looked at first glance and he grunted a little, shifting her to be comfortable, then pumped his wings hard to lift himself and his burden off the ground.  Storm, maddeningly, levitated gracefully up, the silver cloak of her costume swirling around her.  They banked south, heading back towards T.F. Green where they had landed the Falcon. 

            After a couple of minutes the girl stirred in his arms.  Her eyes snapped open and she stiffened.  Angel tightened his grip; afraid she may panic and fall. She stared at him with incredulity. "It's okay, he said soothingly, "I've got you.  We're flying.  Storm took care of Mystique and we are taking you to someplace safe.  It's okay."  He repeated the words over and over to her, a mantra of calmness.  Slowly she relaxed, although she did not loose the look of disbelief.  She reached out and touched his cheek.  He smiled at her, "Yes.  I am real.  It's okay. You are safe.  You are not dreaming.

            The girl, Amina according to Xavier's information, began to babble at him, " 4;يس 7; 6;ا 3; ا 4; 4;ّ 7; 4; 3; 6;ّ ا 4; 4;ّ 7; 8; 5;ح 5;د 7; 5;ا 6;بيّ 7;. يسا 5;ح ا 4; 4;ّ 7; 7;ذا ا 4; 3;ا 1;ر .  2;د أرس 4;ت 5; 4;ا 3; ا 4; 5; 8;ت 4;ج 5;ع 6;ي", she said.   

            "Storm," he shouted, "I think she's in shock.  She's blathering something. It sounds like Arabic."

            She floated carefully closer.  While Warren flew, in the strict avian sense of the word, Storm manipulated air currents to stay aloft. This made flying too close together semi dangerous, Storm could accidentally take Angel's air and drop him out of the sky.  She listened intently, "I don't recognize the dialect, but it sounds like she thinks you are Hazrat 'Izraa'eel come to bring her back to God."

            "Who?"

            "The Angel of Death.  She must think that the lightening killed her."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

            It wasn't until the angel carried her into a little private jet and strapped her into one of the seats that Mina began to slowly realize that she was not, in fact, dead.  What she remembered about dying in the Muslim tradition of her childhood did not include sleek airplanes, comfy leather seats or polished walnut paneling. She knew she was still not thinking clearly, and the ability to move or speak on her own was stubborn to return to her.  She had a hard time separating her mind from the concept that she must be on her way to the afterlife.  She idly wondered when she would get to see the martyrs and the Prophet. She sat quietly trying to make sense of what happened to her as the angel checked her seatbelt, careful to fasten it low on her hips and not across the abraded skin on her belly. He leaned the seat back for her, then gently lifted her chin and turned it side to side.  He touched her cheek and she winced in pain.  His blonde hair fell around his eyes, eyes that looked concerned.  It took her a moment to realize that concern was for her.  He and the flying white haired woman were talking quietly, but she could not quite hear them.  Her ears were ringing. There had been lightening.  God had struck her enemy down and then He had sent His angels to take her to Paradise.  Except one of them was a woman, not an angel, though she could fly too.  And they were taking an airplane. 

That couldn't be right.

The angel moved away from her, shut the door to the jet, and then settled familiarly into the pilot's seat, wings spread out behind him and settling in a white pinioned drift all over the cockpit floor.  He put on a set of headphones and started running through a pre-flight checklist. Then the woman, hair almost as white as the angel's wings, came to her with a first aid kit and began to clean and bandage Mina's scrapes. 

            She was not dead.  That was finally sinking in.  For one thing being dead should not hurt so damn much.  Whatever the woman was using to clean her skin stung like crazy.  The leg that had gotten caught in the door was throbbing, and the bottom of her feet felt like they were on fire. She tried to figure out what she was feeling, except for the pain.  She expected to feel relief or happiness or a renewed sense of purpose in finding that she was still alive.  She might also have expected to feel remorse or disappointment to have blown her chance at a semi permanent legitimate job; there was no way that Scratch would take her on now after a mutant wrecked his club coming after her.  Unless your patrons were "muties", people who were turned on by having sex with mutants, being known as a place where mutants hung out was generally bad for business, especially that kind of business. She had no illusions about being asked back.  But she felt none of these things.  Instead, after a rather fuzzy headed self check she realized that what she was feeling an upwelling of absolute, unmitigated rage.

Certainly she was angry that she had been attacked by one of Magneto's stooges.  Magneto had no right, whatever his global aspirations, to involve her in his insane quest for world domination.  She had had quite enough of being part of other people's schemes. How arrogant he was to just assume that she would have the same goals, the same desires that he had?  His assumption that because they were both mutants they shared something in common other than genetics infuriated her.  He didn't even know her!  Did white people automatically get along because they share the same color of skin or socio-economic advantages?  Stupid.  Just like his twaddle about mutants being superior evolutionary beings.  

            She was furious that they found her in the first place.  She had been careful, ultra careful.  How did they know her?  She did have a certain reputation in the activist community; she was a radical even among the radicals, but she had shown her power only to very few people, and only when it was necessary.  Her parents knew, of course, but she also knew that they would hardly be talking to strangers about their eldest daughter's abilities. That meant that someone must have ratted her out.  She thought she knew whom, and that just made her more furious. Equally, she was angry that she had been unable to get away.  For all her training, for all her preparation she had been unable to fight off one lousy shape-changing girl, a girl for crying out loud. She had to be _rescued_. And most infuriating of all, when she had been swooped up into the sky by the angel, who was obviously a _mutant, _not a divine messenger,she instantly fell back into believing the superstitious nonsense of her childhood.  If she was unable to throw off the shackles of her past, how the hell was the rest of the world going to be able to change? How dare she accuse others of hypocrisy? She felt self-loathing crawl over her skin, tasted the bitterness of shame.  She turned her head away from the impossible presence and the kindness of the people who had saved her so they would not see her cry.

            While Angel radioed the tower to receive permission to take off, Storm finished swabbing the worst of the woman's cuts with alcohol.  It must have been hurting her, but she barely flinched except to turn her head to the side. Storm kept trying to get her to talk to her to ask her if she was hurt anywhere else, but Amina barely acknowledged her presence.  Perhaps she really was in shock. 

            "I am going to check your arms, is it okay if I check your arms?"

            No response. 

            Storm ran her hands down Mina's shoulders, down her arms, bent her elbows in, down her forearms and manipulated her wrists.  No sign of pain.  She was not as good at this as Jean was but…Storm blinked away sudden tears. Jean was dead, she reminded herself.  There was no one else. She resolutely examined the woman's hands.  Mina's fingernails were short, unpainted and there was dirt underneath them.  Not what Storm would have expected of someone dressed as exotically as a belly dancer.  And what had she been doing dressed like this in the center of a warehouse district?  Storm wondered if she was one of the local ladies of the evening.

            When Storm ran her hands down Mina's right shin encased in billowy maroon harem pants, the woman cried out and pulled away.

            "Okay, I am going to try not to hurt you, Amina, but I need you to hold still," Storm soothed.  The girl writhed.  Storm took a pair of trauma sheers out of the first aid kit and cut the pants leg away.  It looked like there was an enormous goose egg shoved underneath the skin of her shin. It had split and was bleeding a little from the pressure.  As she pulled the rest of the fabric away she realized that there was a puddle of blood staining the dark gray carpet under the woman's feet, too much blood to have come from her shin.  She gently lifted up the foot by the ankle. The bottom was a raw bloody mess with shards of glass sticking out of the bottom of her bare foot.  The other foot was cut as well, but not quite as badly. Were the hell were this woman's shoes?

            "Angel, I hope you have a good carpet cleaner in your Rolodex."

            "No one keeps a rolodex any more, my sweet.  Everything is in my PDA. Is she bleeding?"

            "Rather a lot. All over your interior."

            He shrugged, "That's why God invented detergent.  Am I going to need to divert to a hospital before we get back to the School?"

Storm frowned; she was not qualified to make these sorts of decisions. "She has a hematoma with a possible fracture on her right leg, that can probably wait.  But she has at least eight pieces of glass stuck in both her feet.  That's where most of the blood is coming from."

            Warren checked quickly with the tower, explaining that they had a medical emergency and that rather than canceling their flight plans, they preferred to be bumped to the top as an emergency take off.  When the nice air control people questioned his basic sanity, he explained to them, rather patiently he thought, exactly who he was.  There was a short, silent pause. 

            "Clear to taxi on runway 2.  Do please wait until the 747 takes off so you don't get your nose fried off."

            "Roger that, Tower.  Thank you."  He must remember to send them a nice fruit basket for the holidays.  "Okay, if you can keep her from bleeding to death we can get back to the hospital in Westchester in an hour."  

            Storm noticed that Angel failed to mention the medical facility located in the basement of the mansion.  The equipment there was useless without Jean to run it, Jean to wield a needle and catgut, Jean to administer the right level of pain meds. Storm closed her eyes briefly; she struggled to pull herself from the darkness of her thoughts, "If half an half an hour in your universe equals forty seven minutes, does an hour equal an hour and thirty four minutes?"

            Angel grinned, "I thought you said Scott was teaching math. Fine, you caught me, an hour and fifteen minutes."

            Storm sighed, "That's probably less time than it would take to get her out of this plane and into the Providence emergency room.  If you can call ahead and have help waiting then let's do it."

            He put the plane into gear and began to taxi the Falcon to runway 2.  Storm pulled out a pair of tweezers and steeling her own nerve grabbed the girl's ankle firmly. "Hold still Amina, I'll try not to make this hurt. 

*****

A call to the mansion en route confirmed that the rest of the X-Men were not yet back. According to Xavier he had lost communication with the team about twenty minutes ago. 

            "Engaging Magneto's forces," Xavier said tersely.

            "Well they won't need to worry about Mystique," Angel replied, "That's who was chasing down our target when we rescued her."

            "How is she?"  

            "Well Mystique said hello to about 50 thousand volts, but I am going to assume that you are referring to our lovely guest," quickly Angel brought Xavier up to speed on Amina's condition.  

            "Bring her back to the mansion as soon as you land."  
            Angel frowned, "I already called for an ambulance to be waiting for us when we deplane. Her mutation is not obvious; she can pass for human in the Westchester ER. I didn't want to take her anywhere in Providence where someone might recognize her. If Magneto is trying to capture her I did not want to give him or his people another opportunity to try."

            "Yes of course. Angel, I think you and Storm made the right decision. But I think we have the ability to take care of her ourselves."

            Angel blinked at the radio, wondering if the Professor was beginning to loose it, when another voice came across the line.

            "I recommend not arguing with the Professor my feathered friend.  If I can't stitch up the feet of one wayward mutant then I might as well incinerate the paper my PHD is printed on."

            Relief washed through Warren so strongly that it made him laugh out loud, "Hank!"

            "Hank!" squealed Ororo from the floor behind him.  She sounded as relieved as he did.  He was going to tease her later for sounding like a teenage girl, though. 

            "When did you get in?"

            "About an hour ago. I wanted to come back for the memorial service, but I was giving the keynote address at the International Genetics Research Council convention in Japan. I'm sorry."

            You don't need to apologize to me, big guy."

            "I know."

            Xavier filled in the suddenly awkward silence, "I will call the hospital and cancel the ambulance," he said, "and make sure that they never remember receiving the call."

*****

            Storm had removed as much glass as she could from the other woman's feet and wrapped them loosely in bandages.  Amina had endured the procedure almost silently, the only sign of pain being a near constant stream of tears pouring down her face that she did not bother to wipe away.   Storm did not know if the woman was stoic or just in shock, but she was a little alarmed at her ability to handle that level of pain without complaint.  Angel had lifted the girl in his arms like she weighed nothing and carried her to the school van under cover of darkness.  The little airport was mostly deserted at that time in the morning, so no one saw the silhouette of an angel carry a barely dressed belly dancer in his arms, her long black braid falling over his shoulder.  Storm offered to drive back to the mansion. Although he could and often did sit on his feathers, Warren preferred not to, and gratefully agreed to Storm's suggestion.  He laid Amina down in the back of the van and then crawled in next to her, suddenly exhausted.  Storm propped the girl's feet on the first aid kit, closed the doors, started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. 

            Warren unzipped the first few inches of the Kevlar uniform.  The thing fit him like a second glove and did not impede the motion of his wings at all.  He would have to compliment Jones, his tailor, and the Professor when he thought about it next. But the damn thing didn't breathe very well.  He supposed that temperature regulation would naturally take a back seat to bullet prevention in the design of the thing.  He turned to look at the silent girl beside him. 

            She was lying on her back, arms straight by her side, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the van.  She was silently weeping.  He could see her tears gleaming by the light of the sodium lights they passed under on the freeway.  He heard a queer sound, realized with surprise that he had made it. Gently, so as not to startle her, he reached out, touched her cheek, to make the wetness real on the tips of his fingers, to share it.   She flinched.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "please don't cry.  There is nothing to be afraid of any more. We don't want to hurt you.  You will be safe with us."  He spoke to her again as he had in the air, meaningless babble, a soothing stream of words he hoped were healing. This time, she turned her head to look at him.  Gravely with her green eyes she regarded the angel laying next to her, feathers all around him. He kept talking, "That's right.  You can come back to yourself now.  It's ok.  We'll make it ok.  You are safe now, Amina, you're safe."  For a long time she stared into his eyes.  He had no idea what he was saying now, or even if he was still talking. She held his gaze so tightly he felt dizzy.  She was listening though, and he abruptly got the sense that she was going to hold him to the words that he was offering her, words he didn't even know the meaning of. He felt her accept them and then relax.  She closed her eyes.  Warren exhaled.  He didn't even realize that he had been holding his breath. He watched the first few moments of her chest rising and falling before his own eyes began to close.  He laid a wing down over them both and slept. 

*****

            The Blackbird settled on her landing pad with a grateful shudder.  It lowered her into the subbasement and the roof closed over her head.  Scott stretched and cracked his neck with a satisfying crunch. Logan was already unclipping his flight harness and standing up. He cracked his neck, his shoulder and all his fingers in quick succession.  Scott raised an eyebrow, was the man actually trying to out crack him?  

"You may learn to land this thing yet, bub."

Scott was un-amused, and he clenched his jaw, "The professor wants us in the map room for debriefing before we get some sleep." Logan shrugged and ambled out of the lower hatch door, Kurt and Bobby followed him wordlessly.  Scott took care of settling the bird down into her nest, hearing the engine knock and rattle as it cooled.  Once the pans to catch the oil leaks were set up he was able to head to the map room.  

Someone had provided hot coffee.  There was a mug of it steaming at his place at the table, black and rich and warm.  While he was grateful for it, he hoped it was not a sign that they were going to be up all night discussing the missions.

Who was he kidding, it's not like he slept much anymore. 

The blackness and the dread of going to bed alone again almost made him spill his coffee halfway to his lips, and he carefully put it down, fighting for control.  Xavier looked up abruptly and tried to lock eyes with him, but Scott avoided his gaze by glancing around the room at the rest of his team.  He could not...would not allow his grief to impair his ability to lead the X-Men.

As the team settled themselves into chairs around the room, Scott was conscious of the silence beginning to stretch.  They were waiting for him to start. He knew that if he opened his mouth, his voice would betray him.  He closed his eyes behind the visor.  A mistake. Tears started to collect at the edges of his lashes. He opened them quickly, and the power of his eyes rendered them into atoms again. 

Scott saw Warren watching at him.  He looked like he was getting ready to speak, to save them all from their leader's silence. Scott could not allow that to happen, "Wolverine, you start."  His voice sounded strangled to his own ears.

Warren frowned.  

Logan looked surprised, but complied with the order;  "We arrived on site at 19:00 hours.  Cyclops landed the jet about a mile from the coordinates that Xavier had given us to one side of Groom Lake, and we hoofed it in on foot. I took the lead, Cyke the rear, with Nightcrawler and Iceman in the middle.   When we reached the perimeter fence, Nightcrawler teleported us to the other side one at a time in order not to trip the alarms. The area on the other side is loaded with pressure sensitive triggers for about 100 feet inside of the fence, but I can hear the buzzing sound that they make, and was able to lead us through a cleared pathway without setting anything off." He stuck his unlit cigar in his mouth and then chewed it over to the other side of his jaw, "Cyke and his fancy ass vision spotted them near an outbuilding south of the hangers.   When we got up close we could see that it was Magneto, Pyro and a couple of guys I'd never seen before pulling out sheets of heavy plastic."

Xavier sat up straight in his wheelchair, "Plastic?"

"Well, they couldn't have been metal or Magneto woulda levitated them away.  He was having some of his goons actually carry them.  They were big. The size of plywood."  Xavier looked thoughtful.

Bobby took over the narrative, "John was set up as lookout while Magneto was picking and choosing the pieces he wanted the others to take.  Mr Summ… Cyclops sent Nightcrawler and Wolverine to get a closer look at what was going on and who was there, while he and I went to go speak to John.  We surprised him, but he listened to me instead of raising the alarm right away.  I asked him to come back to the school.  Told him that Marie and Peter and I missed him, and that Logan was going to start teaching combat training.  I knew that was something that he really wanted while he was here.  I hoped that would make a difference."  Bobby looked down at his hands clasped in his lap, " For a second I really thought that I had convinced him." 

There was a short silence.  Voice finally under control, Scott cut through the pause, "One of the mutants with Magneto, a large man," Logan snorted in disbelief at the understatement, "literally ran into Wolverine and set up the alarm." Scott tried to keep the condemnation out of his voice and almost succeeded.  "There was a fight.  This attracted the attention of the base and they dispatched troops to investigate. Since we were trespassing on federal property, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and pulled back.  Magneto and his troops and most of the supplies they were looking for did the same.  John went with them."

Xavier said, "Iceman, you mustn't blame yourself for John's choice.  He may yet come to change his mind." 

"Or regret his decision," finished Kurt somewhat ominously. 

 Xavier nodded, "Choices are made and accidents happen. This was not successful mission, but neither was it a disaster." 

"But we did not accomplish anything we set out to do," Bobby pointed out bitterly, "They got away."

"They did," Xavier replied patiently, "But you discovered a new piece of information about Magneto's current plans, and none of you end up captured or dead or even injured."

Scott, Kurt and Bobby all turned to look at Logan, who began to bristle.

"What?" he demanded.

Xavier lifted an eyebrow and waited.

Logan pulled his cigar out of his mouth, stubbornly "My injuries don't count."

Kurt rolled his eyes.

Scott's lips thinned, "If they don't count then you won't mind cleaning the blood out of the back of the jet."  Logan grinned and shrugged.

"Speaking of blood in the back of a jet," Warren interjected smoothly, "Our mission was a complete success."

Scott glared at the angel furiously, "With the exception of injuries, apparently."

"Something our guest acquired before we met her," Warren snapped, but he looked guilty as he said it, as if he was afraid he had not acted quickly enough.

Scott stiffened, afraid to ask the next question, "Where is she?"

"She's in the infirmary, Scott," Xavier answered gently, "Henry has returned from Japan.  He is tending to her."

Scott felt relief, then sudden anger; they were already trying to replace Jean.   Just as suddenly, he felt shame overwhelm him.  It had been Henry's infirmary before it had been Jean's.  There was no real intrusion.  He rubbed his temples, he had to get a hold of himself, "Who is she?"

"Her name is Amina bint Abdul-Salaam," Xavier said with a strange little smile, "and she is really quite extraordinary."

Ororo shifted in her seat, "We also know why Mystique did not put in an appearance with Magneto's raiding party," Ororo interjected, "She was chasing Amina down."

"Why?" Scott demanded.

"She has not said yet," Ororo replied, "She has not said anything at all."

*****

            Mina startled awake, leaping into consciousness from a nightmare of blue women with claws tearing at her feet. Before she could panic a large, homely looking man appeared and laid an enormous hand on her shoulder. "It's okay.  You're safe."  Mina waited until her heart stopped racing.  She was lying on a cold metal slab in a gray sterile room.  It reminded her uncomfortably of a mortician's office. Someone had changed her out of her costume and into a hospital gown then placed her under a light blanket.  She hoped that had been the woman, and not the Grecian god with the wings. She looked around for the angel, but was disappointed not to see him.  Her leg and her feet were throbbing.  The man, shoulders hunched as if he felt too small for the room, or possibly his lab coat, smiled faintly, "I am sorry that Ororo or Warren could not be here.  My wit, while undeniable, is a poor substitute for a handsome face.  Warren wanted to be here when you woke up, but they are talking to the Professor.  It's been a long night for everyone. I'm Dr. Henry McCoy. Or Hank to my friends."

            Mina cleared her throat, "I'm Mina."

            The smile again, "I know.  Do you remember what happened?"

            Mina nodded, "Some of it.  I was being chased by this blue woman who could shape shift."

            "Mystique."

            Mina shrugged, "If you say so. She did not appeal much to me." Henry blinked and then struggled not to laugh at the strange little pun. "She was trying to…"Mina's eyes flicked to Hank's and she abruptly fell silent.

            "To what?" Hank asked, she shook her head mutely, "We know you are a mutant. It's okay. You are safe here. What happened?"

Mina narrowed her eyes; this man seemed to know more about her than she was comfortable with.  It was unnerving.  "I don't really know," she lied, "but she grabbed for me and I bolted. We got into a fight.  I made it outside, but she caught up to me.  Then," Mina struggled to remember, "There was a blue flash, and I…" she shrugged again, "I woke up in the arms of an angel.  I thought I had died.  I was a little upset to discover that I had not." Hank frowned at that statement.  Mina moved smoothly on to deflect any questions, "What permanent damage did I manage to do to myself, Doctor?"

"You have thirty seven stitches in your feet." Mina winced, "Ororo took care of the big pieces of glass in the jet and I took care of the little ones and stitching you up when you got back." He held up some x-ray film to the light. "You have a contusion on your right shin, but fortunately, it's not broken. You are going to have to stay entirely off your feet for several weeks until your feet heal.  How do you feel?"

"Like I have thirty seven stitches in my feet," Mina answered tersely.   

To avert the dark haired woman's renewing panic, Hank smiled gently, "Professor Xavier told me to tell you that you are welcome to partake in his hospitality until you are fully recovered."

Mina swallowed.  These people had, unasked, rescued her from assault, patched her up and then were offering to allow her to stay with them.  Where was the catch? "Thank you," she said awkwardly, one of her hands gestured limply towards her feet, "I don't know if I… can repay either the favor or your hospitality."  
            Hank performed an elaborate bow from the waist, making his lab coat fly up at the back,  "It is always our pleasure to help a damsel in distress, especially mutant ones as beautiful and as polite as you."

This was too much, "Who are you people? "she blurted, "How do you know about me? Why did you bother to save me?"

A door abruptly opened in the wall opposite her. An elegantly dressed, white bald man in a wheelchair came through.  Behind him strode the angel. Warren, she reminded herself.

"Three very excellent questions," the angel smiled winningly down at Mina, "I was wondering when we would get to hear the sound of our lovely guest's voice."

Mina blinked, then cocked her head and squinted her eyes at the angel standing over her, "Did you get your charm at the same time you got your wings or was it issued with your uniform?"

There was a moment of shocked silence. Warren's jaw sagged.  Then Hank's deep laugh rang through the infirmary. The bald man chuckled.

"Is it possible that with one midnight flight our guest may have already taken your measure, oh cherubic one", the doctor asked.

Warren attempted to retrieve his dignity, "Charm runs in my family. It's one of our more endearing assets."

Despite, or perhaps because she owed this man her life, something in her was driving Mina to shatter the perfection of his smile, "Does it come with an off switch?"  
            Instead, the angel grinned, "It does, but it has been stuck at 'on' for years now."

She pressed her lips together, which only made him grin wider.  She wondered if she had misremembered him comforting her in the van.  She changed the subject, "You haven't answered my questions."

The other man broke in, "I have not, but Warren has hardly let me get a word in edgeways. May I introduce myself?" Warren had the grace to look abashed, but it didn't keep him from grinning. "My name is Professor Charles Xavier. You are right to be careful who you trust, Miss Abdul-Salaam, and to question the motivations of those who appear to have power over you. I hope that I can prove to you that I am not one of those people."  She looked doubtfully at him Xavier smiled, "Let me begin by answering your questions," he laced his fingers in front of his face and assumed what Warren recognized as a teaching tone. "I run a school for young mutants, a safe, private place where children who have tested positive for the X-factor gene can complete their education.  Henry, Warren and Ororo are all former students of mine.  While Ororo has stayed on at the school as a teacher, the other two have integrated themselves back into the real world.  Henry is a geneticist, dealing with the X-factor gene while Warren runs a business."

Amina looked around the cold, grim room, "This is a school?"

"No," the Professor replied, gently, "This is the secret underground facility of an organization that has come to be known as the X-Men.  The school is above us."

Amina immediately schooled her features into blankness, "The X-Men?"

Xavier's eyes narrowed, "Yes. Where Magneto chooses to impose his will upon the rest of the world and the world's people, my X-Men try to stop him.  I believe that the future of mutants on this planet is alongside its people, not as the world's new rulers."

She laughed, and the sound was bitter, "Oh boy.  Someone else trying to save the world. You have your work cut out for you."

"Yes, I am afraid we do."

"That explains why you rescued me from…that…woman…"

"Mystique," Hank supplied again.

"...but that does not answer how you knew who I am.  Have you been watching me?"

He shrugged, "Yes and no.  I have known about you for a long time.  It is hard to ignore one who has a mutation as strong as yours.  Within my detecting equipment you shine like a beacon." At this Hank perked up and looked interested.  Mina went absolutely still.  Warren thought that she looked like she was gauging the distance between her and the door, and the number of people she would need to bypass to get there. The professor smiled gently and raised his hand, "There is no need to panic, Mina.  I do not work for the government, and this is not a government plot.  I assure you that my interest in you has been purely academic.  I became aware of you as a side effect of looking for young mutants who might need a place to learn to develop their talents in safety.  You are neither a young mutant who needs protection, nor are you endowed with a gift that is dangerous to yourself or others. You seem to have done an excellent job teaching yourself to control and use it.  Until Magneto took an interest in you, I saw no reason to interfere in your life."

His assurances relaxed Mina, but she did not know why.

"What is your mutation?" Henry asked her politely.

"What's yours?" she shot back defensively. 

He froze, and then shrugged his shoulders, "Strength and agility.  Size 18 feet. IQ off the charts. Blue Fur, though personally I think that is more of an elaborate joke than an ability."

Mina frowned, "Blue Fur?"

Hank nodded once, stiffly. Abruptly the image of the large homely man faded away and a larger, more bestial animal took his place.  He was truly enormous.  His arms were as thick as Mina's waist. His eyes were brown and he was covered over every inch of his body with thick, blue fur.  There were even fangs jutting up from the bottom row of teeth.  He still had on a lab coat though, and the little round glasses that perched almost comically on the end of his lion's nose. Mina's eyes widened as she took this in silently. _This is the second time I've seen a man turn into a blue monster in less than 8 hours, _she thought, but she ruthlessly clamped down on her fear.  At least this time she'd had warning.

And if the angel had gone to school with him, perhaps he was ok.

She deliberately cocked her head to one side, "Oh, I don't know, perhaps you just need a new stylist."

The blue man abruptly relaxed, and then grinned toothily at her, "It's so hard to find a good one.  You should see what the last one did to my nails."

            "How did you hide it like that?"

The professor cleared his throat, "That was me.  Henry asked me to disguise his appearance.  He did not want to frighten you unnecessarily.  Waking up in a strange place is frightening enough."

"What is your mutation, Professor, disguise?"

"No. Telepathy."

Mina's mind clamped down.  She hastily erected her shields, started singing loudly in her head and scooted away from Xavier as fast she could.

"Woah!" Hank and Warren both lunged for her at the same time to keep her from falling off the table.  Hank grabbed her shoulders, Warren her legs. One of his hands landed on her shin.  Pain shot up her leg, bringing unexpected tears to her eyes.  She gasped.  Warren snatched his hands away as if he had been burned. 

"Sorry," he apologized.

"Someone has taught you how to shield," Xavier observed out loud.  Mina regarded him silently, singing for all she was worth in her head, gritting her teeth together.  "However, shouting annoying, repetitive lyrics in order to confuse a telepath is an urban legend.  Henry the Eighth will not save you."  Since that was in fact what she had been singing at the top of her mental lungs, she took him at his word and stopped.  "Thank you." He sighed, "Amina, I am not going to go inside your head unless you ask me to.  Provided that they do not endanger the school, the children or the X-Men, your secrets are yours too keep."

She didn't know whether or not to believe him. She wanted to but she did not trust that desire. She was also in pain and suddenly very tired.  She didn't want to have to be on guard anymore. 

            "We can talk about this more tomorrow," the Professor offered. "Whether you believe it or not, while your feet heal and while you may be in any danger from Magneto, you are welcome to stay as my guest."

She winced.  And that was the crux of her discomfort.  She owed these people a hospitality debt, whether she wanted to or not, whether she could repay them or not. She nodded stiffly, "Thank you. I am honored to be your guest."

Xavier looked at her sharply again, but replied, "I have asked Ororo to prepare a room for you upstairs," he turned his wheelchair and motored away. 

She looked down at the hands that still held her up. Hank suddenly cleared his throat and let go of her. Mina abruptly became conscious of the fact that she was wearing a hospital gown that tied with strings.  She wondered who could see what. She resolutely decided that she was not going to be a prude about this, even as she settled the blanket back down over her naked legs. 

            Warren looked abashed, "I am sorry if I hurt you."

            She shrugged, "Pain is a great teacher.  This time it has taught me to run through doors faster.  It has taught you not to grab wounded women by the legs."

            Warren flushed. This was not the reaction he was expecting.  He felt like an idiot.

            Henry McCoy checked the clock on the wall.  She was alarmed to note that it was two AM. "You have about another hour before I would risk giving you any more medication.  Other than Warren's egregious manhandling of you, are you suffering needlessly?"  
            She shrugged again, one shoulder up to her ear and down, "I am fine.  Thank you."

            There was a bit of confusion while the two men haggled over who was going to get to carry her up to her room.  Too tired to be outraged, Mina was more concerned with how she was going to cover the back of herself on the way up to wherever they were going.  She did not want her bare bottom to be pressed up against the arms of either the Greek god or the furry blue wrestler.  She surreptitiously tried to pull the blanket around her waist.  

            Ororo appeared then. She had changed out of her uniform into a pair of black pajama pants and a t-shirt. She held a nightgown in her hands. She ordered both men out of the room while Mina changed.

            Hank drew himself up, and peered down at Ororo over the tops of his ridiculous glasses, "May I remind you that I am a doctor. I am clinically familiar with every aspect of the female anatomy."

            She poked him in the chest, "It's not your sensibilities I am worried about.  Out! Besides, Scott has not seen you yet."

            At that the man deflated, seeming to sink into himself, "Yes," he looked around the room as if he expected someone else to be there, or as if he was looking for a reason to stay, "Yes, of course you are right."  He left the infirmary without looking behind him.  Warren looked at the two women and then followed Hank at a brisker pace. 

            Ororo sighed, "Sorry about that.  The men around here can be incredibly oblivious sometimes." She held up the gown, "I hope you don't mind wearing one of mine. With all the bandages on your legs, I thought it would be easier than pajamas."

The nightgown was white and silk and slipped over Mina's head with a liquid rustle. She rubbed her fingers against it cautiously; it had been a long time since she had felt herself clothed in such luxury.

Ororo gathered up the remnants of the dance costume that had been piled on a chair in the corner. They were still wet from the rain of her storm.   She fingered the gilt decorations with curiosity, but said nothing.  It was late.  She could hold her questions until later.

            The door to the infirmary slid open with a soft hum.  Warren stood framed in the doorway. He had changed out of his uniform as well, into a white tank and a pair of jeans. His wings blocked the light from the hall, giving him an aura of otherworldliness.  The contrast was startling to Mina.  He looked like a guardian angel caught on his day off.  

_I don't believe in angels_, she reminded herself. 

Without asking, Warren slid his arms underneath her legs and lifted her up into his arms, effortlessly.

She could feel the heat of his body against her shoulder and though the silk. The tops of his wings loomed over her, casting her face into shadow, and she could smell the muskiness of his sweat.

The three of them left the infirmary.  In silence they used the elevator to ascend to the ground level. Ororo led the way down dark corridors that smelled to Mina of lemon wax and dust.  She felt dizzy with his nearness.  She wanted to make a cutting comment to him, something to dispel the tension she felt in his arms, but was too tired to think of anything funny. 

A door opened.  Warren carried her into a small room. It was a warm night and the windows were opened to the night breeze. It's scent, of grass and mulch and stars, comforted her. Ororo pulled the covers back and he lowered her gently into the bed.  

The two of them fussed getting her comfortable, elevating her feet and covering her with a blanket, but her brain was fuzzy now, and she did not really hear what they were saying.

            Ororo soothed the sheet over her shoulders and said quietly to Warren, "She never told Hank what her mutation was. Clever girl."

"I thought I was allowed to keep my secrets," Mina mumbled.  Then sleepily extended one hand towards the window.  

Ororo caught her breath. The rhododendron that framed the edge of the window silently burst into bloom.  Warren saw the crimson blossoms bob and wave in defiance of the season and felt a stab of uneasiness. He looked down at the dark haired dancer, but she was already asleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5. 

Bobby lay awake in his bed.  It was sometime after five in the morning.  He could feel the promise of light beyond the windows, though the color of the sky had not yet begun to change. Sometimes it was thoughts of Marie that kept him up, tossing uncomfortably and trying not to wake John with his hand against his flesh.  

After he had returned from Alkali Lake he had spent a few nights thinking about Dr. Grey and loss and the terrifying risk it took to love someone the way that Mr Summers and Dr. Grey had loved each other.  That love may have been a blessing while they both lived, but it was a terrible burden now that one of them was gone. He had wondered if he loved Marie like that, if it was possible for him to love anyone like that.  He wondered if he wanted to. 

He had spent the bulk of his sleepless hours thinking about the last time he had seen his family, behind the reflection in the upstairs window.  His brother, defiant and exultant, his parents, terrified, letting their mutant son walk away.  He knew what hate and fear looked like, what mutant did not?  He had just never expected to see those emotions in his parent's eyes.  During the day he chose not to think about it.  A lot of the kids at school had parents who had kicked them out, or worse.  His parent's rejection was mild by comparison.   It was only during the night that the revulsion in his mother's eyes made him flush hot with remembered shame.

He could not help who he was, and he did not like feeling that way.  He was ice, not flame.  Neither his mother's fear of him nor his desire to make it better could change that. Nothing could make it back to the way it used to be. He knew this. It was just hard to want something so badly that he used to take for granted.  

He turned over onto his side, studying the posters that John had put on the wall. He supposed that if he must be awake at this hour that he would rather it have been the excitement of being selected to go in a mission with the X-Men.  He had dreamed of this, just this, on so many other nights, but the mission had not been what he had expected and his disappointment and suspicion that he had failed the first time out was what was keeping him up tonight. 

John had told him to fuck off.

He had not had the luxury of time to spend a lot of time thinking about why his friend had left in the first place, though the detritus of John's life surrounded him.  At first he had wildly assumed that he had been kidnapped by Magneto, a prisoner of war.  Marie, whose use of her mutant power when she extinguished St. John's flames in front of his parent's house, had given her enough insight to know that the decision to leave the school had been his own. It had given her something else too, the bitter edge of John's temper. 

            Logan and Bobby had both been trying to help her to untangle the emotions that were hers from the frustrated rage that she had acquired from John when her power had absorbed his. When she had told them some of the thoughts John had been thinking, some of his feelings of powerlessness, loneliness and rage, he began to understand that he had not known John as well as he thought he had. He had hoped though, that the memory of their friendship would have at least made John, Pyro, consider leaving Magneto and coming back to the Mansion. 

            Fat chance.   

            When his pleading and his words had finally faltered and stopped, John had stood there and looked at him as if he no longer knew who he was.  Then a shout had gone up at the warehouse.  Wolverine was grappling with the fattest man that Bobby had ever seen off a couch, and Nightcrawler was **bamfing****** in and out amongst Magneto's people in a gleeful attempt to cause as much confusion as possible. John's face changed then, a mask slipped down over his features, and his lips twisted with rage and betrayal.  Screaming obscenities, he had flicked his lighter and hurled a ball of flame straight at Bobby.

            Flinging himself to the ground, Bobby felt the flame sear the top of his hair and then bounce away into the scrub brush of the desert, leaving a trail of dancing fire in it's wake.  Cyclops shot a bolt of energy from his eyes to strike John in the chest.  He collapsed.  Fighting confusion Bobby hastily used the power of his ice to smother the burning plants.  Alarms started ringing within the base.  Cyclops was shouting at him to pull back.  Bobby scrambled to his feet trying to follow, but then tripped and fell sprawling across John's body.

            Bobby's heart stopped. John's eyes were closed and he was limp.  Disbelievingly he reached across and shook John's shoulder.  John had tried to kill him. Could Mr. Summers have killed John?  Had he meant to?

            Allerdyce coughed and drew breath.  Bobby breathed too, and shook John harder, "Come on, man.  Wake up. The army is coming.  We have to get out of here."

            Pyro's eyes flicked open.  He turned his head to stare at Bobby, his lips curled in a snarl, "Get the fuck off me, man."  They rolled away from each other onto their feet.  Bobby was breathing hard.  Pyro just glared, "Nice uniform, Iceman.  Is that your reward for doing what you're told?"

            "Come on." Shouted Cyclops, "They're coming!"

            "I'm not your enemy," Bobby tried again.

            "Fuck you," Pyro snarled, and then turned and ran towards where Magneto was gathering his people towards him.  Bobby watched him go and then, seeing trucks of soldiers beginning to mobilize deeper in the base stumbled after Cyclops.  They had run as silently as they could across the desert, hoping that Magneto was such a distraction that they would not be followed.  Nightcrawler was almost invisible in the blackness, and he could not see Wolverine at all.  He was afraid that he and Cyclops stuck out, obvious targets for the military's guns, but he could not summon up the energy to be scared. He was too numb.  He realized, dodging imaginary bullets in the darkness that he had never felt so inadequate, unable to affect the outcome of something in his life.

*****

            Warren's eyes snapped open.  Today the sun did not shine so harshly, the sounds 

of basketball on the court outside his window were welcoming and he remembered where he was.  Cheerfully he rolled out of bed and took a hurried shower. He spent a little bit of extra time shaving, trying not to cut himself.  He used to say that most mornings he bled like a murder victim, which would make Candy laugh and kiss him on the back of his neck.  Since her funeral he hadn't made that feeble joke to anyone.  It hadn't been funny anymore. 

            This morning he only nicked himself twice. He washed the blood off his razor in the running water, letting that last thought soak through him.   He had less than a handful of lovers after Candy had died, and none of them had stayed in his life for longer than a month or two.  The guilt of enjoying sex without her had left him early on.  Sometimes he wondered about that, if that made him a sybarite or shallow, but not often.  Sex was just sex after all.  Love, however, love was an entirely different matter and in that way he had remained true to Candy, whether he meant to or not.  He patted his face dry.  The spots of red on the towel made him think of the blood on the carpet of the Falcon, which in turn made him think of the girl.

            Actually, that was not technically true.  He had been thinking about her from the moment his eyes had opened, but nebulously, like an ache between his legs that had yet to become full arousal. Something about her bothered him.   She was exotic, and quick witted, as she had proven in her exchanges with Hank and Xavier.  At the same time she seemed paranoid, suspicious of everything. He still had no explanation why she had been dressed as a fantasy hooker wandering around barefoot in the warehouse district of Providence.  He wondered what was going on in her head, and exactly why Mystique had been chasing her.

            He knew the problem of Amina was one that rightfully belonged to the Professor and the other X-Men, but he had some rights here.  He had partially rescued her, after all; it was her blood on the inside of his jet. And of course, there was the right that his money gave him.

            That was something he was going to have to be careful about. Scott had been kept unaware of the names of the investors in the school.  Warren, for the sake of their tattered friendship, had wanted it that way.  As rich as Xavier's family had been, he did not have the set of resources required to keep the school in business. Warren's father had generously invested in the school when his son started attending, and after his parents' death Warren maintained the financial relationship, had expanded on it, in fact.  According to his accountant Warren had donated twice the amount of money to its endowment and the maintenance of the X-Men than Xavier had himself. 

            He did not want Scott to resent him any more for his wealth than he already did, but his investment in the organization meant that if he wanted to know what was going on with Amina, he was going to find out. 

            He dressed carefully but hurriedly.  Black jeans, wings strapped down underneath a dark blue button down shirt.  He knew the blue complimented the color of his eyes and was not above using that to his advantage if he needed to.  Time to check in on the School's new guest. 

            Although Amina had been given a room on the ground floor, only three doors down from his own, he found that someone else had already beaten him to his target, and with better ammunition. 

            Hank stood outside Amina's door balancing a breakfast tray in one hand, fist raised to knock.  The two men stared at each other for a moment, eyes narrowed in speculation.

            Hank raised himself to his full height, towering over the six-foot tall angel, "I am here to check on my patient," he announced.

            With as much dignity as he could muster, Warren replied, "I am here to check on my charge,"  
            "Your charge?" Hank was incredulous.

            "Yes," Warren replied firmly, "I rescued her.  That makes her my charge."  
            Hank glared, "I am under the distinct impression that it was the judicious application of Storm's mutation that saved my patient from Mystique's clutches."

            "That may as be so," Warren replied, "But since Ororo already has her hands full with her current students, responsibility for Amina's comfort and welcome falls to me."

            "You argue like a lawyer," Hank growled.

            "No," Warren clarified, "I argue like a businessman."

            "Perhaps we should let Mina decide," Henry placed the emphasis on the shortened version of her name.  

            Warren caught the implication of superior intimacy and frowned, "Decide what? There is nothing to decide.  And your quibbling is making her breakfast get cold."

            "My quibbling?"

            "Exactly."  Warren rapped on the door to Mina's room. There was no answer.

            "Since I am the person who actually brought her breakfast, rather than the interloper who is going to claim credit for being so thoughtful, I hardly think that your interest the quality of her dining experience is a valid concern."

            Warren knocked again.  Nothing. 

            Hank and he exchanged a look.  Warren turned the handle. 

            The door opened to reveal an empty bed, covers pulled carelessly down towards the foot.  The window was open and the sounds of play on the basketball court made a distant counterpoint to the waving of the rhododendron's blood red blooms.  No Mina.

            "Bed's been slept in," Warren observed.

            "She can't have gotten far," Hank frowned, "She can't walk without tearing her stitches out."

            There was a thump, a muttered curse and the door handle to the bathroom rattled. Warren went to the door and opened it. 

            Mina was propped up on her stomach on the tile floor, bandaged feet up in the air behind her, panting heavily.  

            "Are you ok? What happened?" Warren knelt down beside her.

            "Had to pee," Mina panted, "Couldn't wait any more." 

            "Here," Warren offered, "Let me help you."

            She shoved his hand away and began to belly crawl, "I can do it myself."

            Warren blinked in the face of her vehemence, and stepped back a pace.

Henry put the breakfast tray down and began to re-arrange the bed, "While I am sure you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself in most circumstances, Mina, I am going to insist, as your current physician, that you allow us the privilege of catering to your physical needs." Mina ignored him and slowly kept crawling braid trailing behind her.  Hank's tone abruptly sharpened,  "Stubbornness and possible re-injury will only delay your recovery time."  
            Mina stopped, head down, arms trembling.  Ororo's white silk night nightgown gaped in the front and the morning light teased the shadows between her breasts.

            Warren lay a hand on her back, "Please let us help you."

            She sighed, temporarily defeated, "Fine."

            Warren helped her roll over, then lifted her up, arms behind her back and under her knees, then placed her on the bed.  She was shaking with exertion. Henry elevated her feet and covered her with the blanket. Wordlessly he handed her a little paper cup with 4 pills in it.  

            She looked down at the medication suspiciously, "What is it?"

            "Acetaminophen.  Just acetaminophen."

            She swallowed them and the glass of water that he handed her afterwards. 

            Warren wanted to perch on the edge of the bed, but suddenly felt uncertain of her reaction.  He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat on it backwards at the foot.   

            She looked at him; puzzled, "I don't want to ask a stupid question," she started, "But didn't you have…"

            "Wings?  They come with an off switch."  She laughed weakly to have her own words thrown back at her. "I have a harness that keeps them strapped down," he finished.

            "Hungry?"  Henry queried.   She nodded, and he presented her with the tray, "Today, your personal chef has prepared for you a meal fit for a King."  He lifted the cover over the plate, "Et voila… oatmeal."

            Mina blanched as she peered into the bowl.  

            Hank seemed to deflate a little, "What?  What's the matter?"

            She smiled at him apologetically, "You had no way of knowing.  Don't feel bad."

            He frowned,  "Are you allergic?"

            "No, no.  It's not that.  I…" she took a deep breath, "My mutation.  I… can't."

            Henry peered down into the bowl, "Your mutation is that you can't eat oatmeal?"

            She laughed shakily, "No.  Though that would have been easier."

            Something clicked in Warren's head, "It's a plant," he guessed.

 "Very good," she nodded.

            Henry covered the bowl, "You're a carnivore?"

            "Not precisely."

            "Her mutation is that she makes plants grow," Warren supplied.

            Henry brightened, "Really?  Fascinating!"  Warren could already see the gears turning in his head, "….and so you can't eat oatmeal because… you are biologically similar to plant life?"

            She shook her head, "I don't think so.  I mean obviously I bleed.  I don't have chlorophyll or sap in my veins.  I just can't quite eat some plants.  It freaks me out.  I can't get over the fact that a plant, someone I may have talked to was destroyed to feed me."

            Henry looked like he was going to burst, "Can you show me?"

            Warren smiled.  Henry was so thrilled that he had forgotten to use large words. Mina glanced uneasily at Warren, "It's okay," he assured her, "Hank is a scientist."  This did not appear to reassure her, but she extended her arm towards the window again. 

            This time long, pale green spears shot up out of the ground, twisting and curling, then budding at their tips.  Gently, the buds opened to reveal a host of yellow and orange daffodils.

            "Trees and shrubs too?"

            "Yes."

            "The flowers there are her work," Warren pointed out the rhododendron.

            Hank lumbered to the window to touch the blooms with a gesture that was delicate, "Marvelous…" he shot her a look, "and you said you "talk" to them.  Can you elucidate your perspective on that point?  What are the known limitations upon your mutation?"

            She blinked, "I don't really know. I mean I don't make them grow.  I can't make a plant do something it doesn't want to do. All I do is ask them to grow, and they do."

            It was Hank's turn to look surprised, "Has a plant ever told you no."

            "Oh sure.  A cactus in the wrong soil won't do much of anything for me. Cacti get grumpy."

            Hank got a strange look on his face, "Grumpy?"

            "If you are talking to the plants, do you need to reach out like that to get them to listen?"

            Mina frowned, "No.  At least I don't think so, I just always have."

            "I'd love to run some tests on you," Henry enthused, "Mutant DNA holds a special fascination for me.  My research…"

            Mina changed the subject, "I don't think I can eat the oatmeal.  Thank you for thinking of me. I am sure it is excellent, but…"

            Henry shook himself, "Quite. Uh… eggs?  Bacon?  Yogurt?"

            " 'Marvelous' ," she replied. 

            Henry looked like he was glowing blue with happiness,  "One cholesterol special coming right up."  He bustled out of the room with the plate of oatmeal, humming to himself.  The door closed behind him. 

            The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Warren noticed for the first time that her eyes were green, as pale as daffodil leaves.  She looked fierce, ready to run.  She also looked too exhausted to move, despite a night's sleep.  He knew he should let her rest but he couldn't leave the room.  She picked at the blanket with her fingers without shifting her eyes from his face.   He had a thousand questions, and didn't know where to start.

            There was a knock at the door.

            "Come in," Amina called, breaking away from his gaze.

            Ororo bustled in carrying clothes and toiletries, "Good, you're awake…Oh.  Good morning Warren.  I didn't know you were here."

            Ororo's greeting was just a touch too smooth.  He wondered if she was in collusion with Henry and he narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, "Morning 'Ro."

            She turned her attention immediately to Mina, "I thought that you might want to get clean."

            Mina's sigh of relief was genuine, "Thank you, that would be wonderful."

            "Henry thinks a shower might be too much standing up for your feet right now, so it will have to only be a sponge bath.  I also brought you something to wear."

            Mentally Warren cursed both Hank and the visual of Mina having a sponge bath that flared into life behind his eyes.  

            "I hate to keep imposing on your hospitality."

            "Nonsense," Ororo dismissed her concerns, "We swiped you off the streets without an overnight bag.  It's our duty to make sure you are clothed for as long as you stay with us."

            "Any idea how long that will be," Mina asked

            "I don't really know.  Stitches are usually 10 days or so, I think.  But Hank thinks you have muscle and ligament damage.  You may be here for a while."  Mina looked stricken.  "I told you, don't worry.  You are our guest."

            Mina twisted the blanket in her hands distractedly, "It's not that. It's my plants."

"I'm sure they'll be fine.  Houseplants are pretty sturdy."

Mina shook her head, "No. If I leave them that long, they'll die!  I need to get back to them."

"Woah," Warren interjected, "You can't go anywhere right now, regardless of the state of your feet.  Have you forgotten that Mystique is looking for you?"

She turned white as that fact sunk in but looked at Warren beseechingly, "I can't just leave them. These plants are my friends."

Ororo's face shifted a little as comprehension dawned, "This is as important to you as a cat. Or a goldfish."

"Yes.  I need… I can't just leave them to die."

Warren spoke before he had thought it through, "I'll go get them."  

Mina's grateful smile dazzled him, "Would you?"

"Tell me where you live, and how to get in to your house, and I will rescue anything you ask me to.  I'll even get you some of your own clothes."

"Thank you!"

An idea occurred to him belatedly, "I'll go talk to Professor Xavier to let him know what is going on.  I will ask Scott to come with me and help me out."

Ororo shot him a measured look, "That's an excellent idea.  Keep him busy.  Get him out of here for a while."

"Exactly."

"Who's Scott? And why do you need to keep him busy?"

Ororo and Warren exchanged a long look.  Ororo looked down, and away.

He took a breath,  "Since you are staying here at the school for a while, there are some things that you should know.

*****

            Scott was annoyed that he could not find the soda he wanted in the fridge.  A quick inventory revealed Sprites, Mountain Dews and root beers, but no Cokes.  Cokes always ran out first and it was a constant battle to keep the refrigerator stocked for a school full of teenagers.  He gritted his teeth, trying not to be annoyed and failing.  Why did it always fall to him to restock the fridge?

            He cut through the pantry to the walk-in fridge, where the School kept the bulk of the perishables as well as the extra soda. He pulled the door open and stopped. 

            Kitty and Marie looked up from the floor guiltily.  They each wore their wintertime coats and their breath showed as feathery plumes in the chilly air.  In between them was a tangle of plastic bags half filled with soft color, flower stems that had been stripped of their petals and empty plastic vases.   

On every shelf in every spare place that they could be wedged into were the flower arrangements from the memorial service.  Scott felt his knees buckle.

He leaned against the door to keep from falling down, "What are you doing," he asked.  His voice cracked on the last syllable. 

Kitty looked like she had been crying and was about to start again.  Marie gulped, "I'm sorry Mr. Summers.  I hope you're not mad at us."

"What are you doing?" he repeated numbly.

She gestured at the arrangements, "We didn't know what to do with them," she confessed, "We didn't want to throw them out, but nobody wanted to look at them any more, so we put them in the fridge until we figured out what to do with them.  Neal's mom's a florist, and he said that's what you do to keep them fresh.  Kitty came up with the idea of…Kitty, you tell him."

"We're pulling all the petals off and we are going to go down to the lake at sunset and float them out over the water," she said shyly. Nervousness made her phase partway though the floor.  

Scott sank to his knees in front of them, thinking that Kitty was possibly the only person on the planet for whom the floor would actually swallow up when they were embarrassed.  He fingered a display of lilies, red roses and pink carnations, though the lilies also appeared pink through his visor.  There was a ribbon marked with the words "Daughter" in glitter paint; Elaine's display.  He pulled out a rose, laying it against the skin of his lips. The petals felt as soft as Jean's skin, but cold.  As cold as her body must be right now, where ever it was at the bottom of Alkali Lake. 

He looked at their faces, grief-stricken, and fearful.  For the first time he realized that he was not the only one who had lost Jean when the waters closed over her head. 

"That's a wonderful idea," he croaked.  Tried again, "Jean would have loved that…"

He knew he should not fall apart in front of his students and yet, he felt his control crumble away from him.  He sat there holding the rose and weeping, tears pouring hot down his cheeks behind closed lids, his rage gone, only his sorrow and loneliness remaining.

For a long time he heard no sound from the girls, then they both moved at once to try to embrace him awkwardly.  Kitty was so agitated that she partly passed through him.  Marie seemed afraid to touch, fearful that her mutant power would hurt him.  He sat there in the cold room, with two girls who could not feel him, holding a grief that he could not share for a woman he would never be able to touch again.   

After a while they pulled away, leaving him to collect his tattered self-possession.  Marie handed him a plastic bag and the three of them sat and pulled the petals off of a thousand flowers one by one. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

            **Come in, Warren**

            Warren had forgotten the trick of Xavier's that had most impressed him when he first came to the school: the ability to know when someone was approaching his office and who it was. He knocked anyway, and entered.

            "I was wondering when you would find time to come see me," Xavier said, closing a book and motoring his wheelchair around the desk.  

            "Sorry about the delay, I've been spending time with Scott, as you suggested."    
            "How is he?"  
            Warren drew a breath, "As well as could be expected, so, terrible. I hope that his dedication to the school, the X-Men and frankly, you, will keep him from doing anything stupid to himself."

            "Do you think that is likely?"

            "Maybe. He said as much to me.  He's such a control freak; it's not outside the realm of possibility."  Warren looked down, aware of the hypocrisy making that statement, but barreling on nonetheless, "On the other hand, he has such a strong sense of duty he may find that if it comes down to actually acting on his impulse that he is incapable of doing anything about it.  That's what I'm hoping for at any rate."

            Xavier spoke carefully, "I wish there was some way for him to understand that life will always find a way."

            "With respect, sir.  I don't think he is ready to hear such a…platitude right now."

            "I know he's not," Xavier smiled gently.

            Warren changed the subject, "I know that you wanted to talk to me, but I need to get on the road.  I spent some time this morning with your new houseguest."

            "Ah yes, Mina," his eyes twinkled

            "Hank thinks that she may be immobile for several weeks, so I have offered to go to her house and pick up a few of her things."

            Xavier turned that over in his head for a moment, "They could be waiting for her.  We don't yet know what Mystique or Magneto wanted her for.  She is still very much in danger."

            "That's why I thought I would take Scott with me. Get him out of the house for a while."  Xavier nodded.  Warren continued, "A discreet observation of her own living space may also shed some light on the reasons why she is a target."

            Xavier frowned, "Go gently here.  She is slow to trust, and I suspect that she may never forgive a breech of that trust."

            "I will sir, but she asked someone to go and get her plants. I don't know that we will get a better opportunity than this."

            "Her plants?"

            Warren described briefly what Mina had said about her mutation.  The Professor looked intrigued, but declined to comment when Warren asked him for his thoughts on the matter. 

            "Before you go," Xavier said, "I wanted to tell you that you seem more animated since you have been here than you have been during the teleconference calls and the board meetings I have seen you at in the last two years."

            Warren froze.

            Xavier continued placidly, "Loosing Jean has been a terrible time for the School and for the X-Men.  I appreciate you being here and supporting Scott through all this.  And me as well." 

            "You are welcome.  It has been my pleasure," he answered, lips stiff. 

            "It's almost as if you have come alive in the last two days." Xavier regarded him calmly, "Have you been unhappy?"

            Warren sat down in one of the hard chairs with a thump, pinching the ends of his wings.  The immediate pain was good.  It helped him pull back a little from the precipice that Xavier had led him towards. He closed his eyes, searching for something truthful to say, "I've been tired," he temporized, "The economy has made it difficult.  The business is doing well, all things considered, but every time I turn around there is another crisis. And the marketing campaign I am funding to lobby against the Mutant Registration Act is not going well.  The agency we hired has gone through a management change and now they are refusing to do the work."

            Xavier cut through to the heart of his fear, "Since Candy's death your passion for your work has faded."

            Warren looked down at his hands; "I don't feel qualified to help Scott figure out why he should try to put his life back together. I never figured it out.  I just got used to what life was like without her." He spread his hands apart, as if to emphasize their emptiness,  "How can I help him?  I couldn't ever help myself."

            "And yet you are still here," Xavier said.

            "In some fashion, I suppose.  It's more like habit though.  And duty. You need me. The board of the school needs me. The business needs me."

            "A man's life is worth more than the sum of his responsibilities, Warren."  
            "I know. In my head I know that is true. But living that way has been difficult."

            "I think you need a new challenge."  
            Warren laughed, "You mean running a multi billion dollar corporation while hiding the fact that you are a mutant is not challenge enough?"

            "How about running a multi billion dollar corporation and go public with your mutation. Why not rejoin the team?"

            Warren caught his breath, "I…"

            "The X-Men meant more to you than anything.  I know what it cost you to leave us.  There is no reason why you need to stay away. Why not come back?"

            "The business world would never stand to have a mutant as a CEO."

            "A business' true motive is profit.  You have said that a hundred times before.  A mutant can make money as easily as a human."

            "Scott would never allow me back on the X-Men."

            "I think you underestimate your friend."

            "I think you underestimate his grief.  He would see my presence as a sign that you have lost faith in his ability to lead."

            "I'm a telepath. I don't think its possible for me to underestimate anyone's grief."

            Xavier simple statement punctured Warren's multiple excuses, "I'm sorry sir.  Everyone has spent so much time worrying about Scott; my guess is no one has spent anytime worrying about you.  Has it been difficult for you?  So many minds so close and filled with so much grief."

Xavier seemed surprised, "Me? Oh I'm fine. Thank you.  The hardest part has been shielding out the immediacy of others feelings while still trying to offer guidance and help."

"The two of you had a close friendship."

His face softened, "I miss her. I miss her physical presence here at the school.  But there are times when I can still almost feel her, hovering around the edges of my mind," he smiled to himself.  Warren thought he looked impish, as if he knew something he was not quite willing to share.

"I have felt that way about my Father before.  After he and Mother died there were times that I felt he was watching me and judging how I was handling his business in his absence. I don't want to come off sounding mystical, but there are times that I feel that the dead are not so far away."

Xavier flashed him a smile, "Appropriate musings for an angel."

"My business competition would scoff to hear you describe me that way."

"Yes, I've heard all sorts of stories about your ruthlessness."

"I am my father's son. I have a certain reputation I have to maintain." 

But the quip fell flat when Xavier responded with only a thoughtful, "Indeed."

**********

            After a hot breakfast, a rather messy bath, and dressed in another set of borrowed clothes Mina felt almost human, or at least as close to human as a mutant ever felt.  She felt awkward about Hank and Ororo fussing over her so much, but felt powerless to stop them.  Her mother had taught her that the role of a guest was to allow the host the courtesy of presenting their best side and so did not protest the way that she wanted to. 

            She hated feeling helpless though. 

            While Hank was rewrapping the bandages on her feet she heard a rumble and a scraping sound coming from outside her open window.  Alarmed she sat up straight and jerked her feet away, ready to fling herself out of the bed and into the bathroom if necessary.  Hank half turned towards the sound, and then reached out and reclaimed her feet, continuing to wind the bandages loosely. 

            "What the hell is that," she demanded, alarmed.

            "Sounds like Scott and Warren have decided to take the blackbird to pick up your things."  He shook his head sorrowfully, "The Professor is likely to have their hides though.  He hates disturbing the neighbors."

            The scraping sound stopped to be replaced with the roar of a jet engine.  It built to an ear throbbing crescendo before the sound began to fade out.  She looked incredulously at the blue giant with the gentle hands, "You have your own airport?"

            "Landing pad, actually, the Blackbird is a vertical take off and landing type aircraft."

            She absorbed that piece of information, demanded suspiciously, "Are you sure you are not funded by the government?"

            He smiled, all fanged teeth, and then sobered abruptly, "I find the possibility dubious in the extreme.  We've seen recent evidence to indicate that the government was funding a secret project that experiments on mutants. Exploring their potential for military applications."

            "Ah. That explains what Ororo was talking about. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest."  
            "Well then, a judicious application of critical thinking will recognize that funding a school to teach young mutants to be good citizens and funding a mutant experimentation project are incompatible activities."

            She grinned.  For a moment it was like being back at the coffee shop, talking politics with Yurtle, Alexx and the others.  She leapt to the attack, "Except your analysis of the situation assumes two things that are not necessarily true. First, that the government has a unified vision of how it plans on dealing with mutants.  In practice the feds usually don't know what the right and left hands are doing.  Second, you are also assuming that the government's vision is both intelligent and sane.  Neither of these are qualities that I would ascribe to this administration or to the un-elected bureaucrats who actually run the show. I see no reason why the government could not be hedging its bets, trying to see which is the most effective strategy for dealing with the mutant 'problem'."  She brought her fingers up and made quotation marks in the air to frame the last word.

            "Oh my stars and garters!" Hank rolled his eyes in what Mina assumed to be rapture, "You're an intellectual!"

            "Watch your language," She warned, darkly, while fighting to keep from breaking into a smile "I might get insulted. Intellectuals only talk about the problem but don't do anything about fixing it. I am _not_ an intellectual."

            He chortled, "As plausible as your theory is, I am almost positive that this school and the X-Men are entirely privately funded."

            "You have some rich backers then."

            "One or two."

            There was a knock at the door.  Ororo had returned with a wheelchair, "This is the professor's spare," she explained, "He thought that this would help you get around on your own."

            Mina knew she could not hide the relief in her expression, "Thank you, again.  You all seem to be able to think of everything that would make me feel comfortable."

            Ororo's eyes twinkled as Hank easily picked Mina up and placed her in the chair, "Would you like a tour?" Mina nodded.

            "Ladies," Hank began to apologize, "Although I would like to do nothing more than to spend a day meandering through my alma mater with such delightful and Tempean company as yourselves, I am afraid I promised the professor that I would get some work done for my debut as 'Professor' Henry McCoy tomorrow.  Perhaps we shall catch up at dinner tonight?"  He bowed, kissed Mina's hand, and then Ororo's hand for good measure and left them.

            "Hank has agreed to teach Jean's science classes for the rest of the semester," Ororo explained as she wheeled Mina down the hall. "Hopefully things will get back to something resembling normal."

            "What's normal for a mutant school?"

            Ororo sighed, "Good question."

*********

Ororo showed her the empty classrooms, the library, the living room, the dining room and the kitchen. She took her down to see the garage filled with the school's cars and out to the stable and around the basketball court. Almost everywhere were the signs of the recent invasion that Ororo and Warren had told her about.  Boarded up windows, bullet holes in the woodwork, scrapes and water damage in the hall. As they passed over the Oriental rug in the entryway, Mina stopped Ororo and pointed to it. 

            "Is that a bloodstain?"

            Ororo looked alarmed, "Where?"

            "It's hard to spot because the field is dark red, but I don't think that outline there is part of the design of the rug."  Mina pointed with her hand the irregular blotch marring the central medallion. 

She got down and gingerly touched the part Mina had pointed out, "It's stiff."

"Then it is a bloodstain."

            Her new friend looked at the rug with a mixture of horror and revulsion, "I can't believe we missed that. I'll make sure we get rid of it."

            It was Mina's turn to look horrified, "This is an antique Isfahan!  You can't just get rid of it." She reached down, touched the wool, flipped up a corner of the rug and did some hasty mental calculations, "This is probably a twenty thousand dollar rug."

            Ororo looked ill, "One of Striker's men died on it."

            Mina waved that away, "A little ammonia, a little salt, a little detergent and you will never be able to tell.  If there one thing an Afghan woman knows about cleaning, it's how to get the blood of your enemies out of your heirloom carpets."

            Ororo looked up through the strands of her white hair, "Is that where you are from?"

            Mina cursed herself.  A morning of kindness and she was becoming incapable of holding her tongue.  On the other hand, it suddenly occurred to her, Ororo's question revealed that some members of the X-Men did not know as much about her as she thought they did, "Yes," 

            "You don't have an accent." Ororo observed, "How do you know so much about rugs?"

            Mina hesitated again, weighing how much to reveal before giving in, "My father was a dealer."

            "In the States or in Afghanistan?"  
            She needed to change the subject.  Now. "Both.  Will you and Professor Xavier allow me to repay your hospitality by cleaning your rug?  It would be a shame to have it ruined.  It's a lovely piece."  

            Ororo brightened, "Sounds good to me, though I had something more immediate and hopefully more rewarding in mind," she stood up, brushed off her knees and got behind the wheelchair.  "Final destination on our whirlwind tour is my favorite place on campus."

            Ororo pushed the chair through the center of the school. She introduced Mina to everyone they passed, but the names blurred together for her until by the time they reached the quieter end of the building she did not know if she could have matched up one name to any of the faces.

            "Here we go," Ororo stopped the wheelchair in front of a set of glass double doors fogged over with condensation, and pushed a blue button set into the wall.  The doors slid back, a wave of humidity rolled out of the room.

            Mina sat up in the chair, "A green house!"

            "Better," said Ororo, wheeling her inside, "A conservatory."

            The white iron fretwork holding the glass panes in place soared above Mina two stories high, then folded across the ceiling at an impossible angle to make the roof look almost like an onion dome.  Wrought iron cresting ran the length of the peak. The light from the midday sun angled off the panes of glass, letting her see though to the garden outside in some places, while flinging the reflection of her own eyes back to her in others.  A gravel path wound towards the rear of the long room, overhung all the way with tropical plants of every shape and description.  Vines scrambled up the support cables, the wide fat leaves of banana plants fluttered gently in front of one of the fresh air vents. A plumeria wound it's ridged trunk up through the leaves in search of the sun.  The heady fragrance of its yellow flowers seemed to tug Mina further into the room. She rolled the wheels of her chair forward, hearing them crunch on the gravel, releasing the scent of the soil and the mold that flourished in the humid space.  It was earthy, familiar, and reassuring.

            She could not help herself, she laughed out loud.

            "I am so glad you like it," Ororo said, dimpling, and relaxing for a moment from her perfect host role. "This place is my refuge.  Almost no one comes here but me, but I thought that you would probably appreciate it."

            Mina touched one of the vines as Ororo wheeled her past, craning her neck to see the articulated rainbow of flowers dotting its length, "Passiflora incarnata. " She breathed, "Hello, beautiful…."

            "Oh you know the Latin! Yes, it's a passion flower," Ororo confirmed.

            "I've never spoken to this variety before."

"When I first came to the school this room was a terrible mess.  No one had really stepped foot in here since Professor Xavier's mother had died. She was the one who had the place built. I cleaned it up and started growing some exotics to pass the time. I grow a lot of the plants for the landscaping myself. But these, these have eluded me." Ororo stopped the wheelchair in front of a potting table, "My mutation gives me the interest in horticulture, but not always the skill, I'm afraid."

Like gears finally beginning to turn in a rusty old clock, Mina felt curiosity about another person stir within her.  On the street it was rude to ask a suspected mutant about the nature of their affliction, like asking someone why they had gone to prison.  It was a social line you did not normally cross. She got the sense that the rules didn't work that way here, "What…what is your mutation?" 

"Weather control."

Mina absorbed that for a minute.  She blinked, "The lightening. That was you!"

"Yes."

"Holy shi…that's incredible!"

She dimpled again, "Not as incredible as what I think you can do.  Can you take a look at this?" Ororo pulled a plant down from the table and set it on the floor next to the wheelchair, "It just won't bloom for me."  The plant was about three feet tall with dull olive foliage. The leaves were almost as long as Mina's palm and rustled against each other.

"Dahlia variabilis," she murmured and then reached out and caressed its leaves, focusing down into it the way that she had discovered when she was twelve.  

Surprise, welcome, joy, the speaking of like to like, the sense that she was enfolded into its bark, its leaves, its roots became her feet, her fingers flattened and fluttered. A hollow feeling in her chest, her skin itched and the sense of drowning, drowning, drowning….

Mina pulled back and opened her eyes. The sense of being Mina again snapped back, like a rubber band.  She focused on Ororo, trying to catch her balance. "Too wet," she said, "We need soil that does not hold so much water."  Mina caught herself pulling at the neck of her t-shirt trying to get more air and stopped. 

Ororo looked surprised, taking in the amalgam of Mina and the dahlia, "Should I repot it?  Her? "

"Yes… the soil should be sandy…and the repotting should help the… I don't know what you call them… little bugs?"

"Thrips?"  Ororo looked alarmed, "She has thrips?"

"Eggs only at the moment.  I think she wants to be put outside.  It will probably help disrupt the lifecycle of the little buggers."

Within minutes Ororo had gathered a trowel and was wheeling Mina clutching the dahlia out of the back door of the conservatory out into the garden. Ororo stopped in front of one of the beds where a bare spot of mulch waited for a new plant.  "No," Mina said, "Not here.  She wants to be over there, in the sun.  The soil is right there."

Ororo hesitated, "This is where I planned on putting the dahlias."

"Yes, but you didn't ask her if that's what she wanted. It's not."

Mina got a blank look from the other woman, "Ask her?"

She reminded herself that other people did not know; reminded herself to be patient, "She won't be able to bloom here either."  She could feel the plant's urgency.  "Over there will be better."

Reluctantly Ororo pushed Mina's chair over to the spot she indicated, up close to the wall outside the library in full sun, "Its not even part of the landscaping."

Mina laughed, "When has a plant ever paid attention to where you want it to grow? This is why you spend so much time weeding.  A plant grows where the seed lands because the conditions are right. If you are dealing with transplants you have an entirely different problem. You have to find a spot that would have been right had the plant been a seed and not an adult; otherwise you will either kill them or make them unhappy.  Here, here she will be happy."

There was a little crease in Ororo's forehead as she mulled that over, "Sure, we can give it a try."

Since the soil had not been turned in this spot, Ororo fetched a shovel and dug a hole to Mina's specifications, then gently turned the dahlia out of it's pot, placed it in the hole, turning it to face the sun, and then crumbled up the dirt with her hands and placed it back in the hole. Mina sighed, contentment humming through her.  She asked a question of the dahlia, and as Ororo pulled her hands away from the soil, it burst into bloom. 

"She says thank you," Mina translated unnecessarily.

The flowers on the dahlia were orange at the tips and faded towards yellow at their center of the bloom.  The petals curved back upon themselves, creating a riot of spikes, like fireworks caught in mid explosion.

Ororo's mouth curved into a delighted smile.  She touched one of the blossoms gently, "You are welcome," she whispered.

*****

When Warren had asked Mina to write down directions to get to her house he thought at first that she must have been kidding. Who lived in the middle of a state forest? 

"Me," she'd answered firmly.

Uncomprehendingly he'd asked the first question that had occurred to him, "How do you survive the winter?"  
            She'd rolled her eyes impatiently, "Good grief, you'd think that humans were incapable of living in the wild.  Our ancestors pulled it off, why can't we?"

She'd drawn him a map that they had used as a starting point, which they'd then superimposed on top of a topographical map of Massachusetts to figure out the general area of where they had to go. They had flown the jet under military radar level and landed it in the middle of a field relatively close to the location Mina had indicated. It still involved a lot of tromping around in the middle of nowhere trying to triangulate based on her sketchy suggestions.  Well, Warren mused to himself; it was a lot of tromping around for Scott. 

Warren had un-strapped himself from his harness and flown in low lazy circles in on the excuse that he could help figure out where they were going from the air by communicating with Scott via handheld radio.  Mostly though he was grateful for a chance to just fly.  

He had spent so much of the last six years being Warren Worthington the III that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be the Angel. To fly for the sheer joy of feeling his wings beat at the air, of seeing the earth spread out underneath him like a patchwork blanket.  He'd forgotten what it was like to play chase with the hawks, or how to dodge the sparrows when they'd decided that he'd come to close to their nests; to just be himself, free and graceful and fully alive.

The radio attached to the belt of his uniform crackled, "Angel, I repeat, do you see anything?"

Startled, Warren felt immediately guilty, and pulled up by stroking sharply downward, "Negative, I don't see a tall Douglas fir anywhere… oh!"

Warren could hear the tension in Scott's voice, "What?  What do you see?"

"There is a clump of significantly taller trees to the south."  They rose up in a mound as if they were a tree-covered hill, but according to their topographical maps the land sloped gently away to the south here, an ancient drained river basin.  He checked the GPS on his wrist, "It's within half a mile of where we thought we might find the place."  
            "Check it out and report back then, I'll start heading that way."

Warren flew over the clump, but found he could not set down in the middle of it. Vines covered the tops of the trees, shielding the ground from the air.  He was forced to land northwest of the mound, dropping carefully down through a break in the trees.  He was not like Storm who could just gently drop the air out from underneath her feet, alighting as if she were stepping off a Paris runway.  He landed as silently as he could, which is to say not silently at all. He hoped he sounded like an eagle would, crashing through the trees to go after a rabbit on the ground. He held still for several minutes waiting to see if someone was going to break from the bushes or if he was going to get shot at.  Nothing happened. He stood up.

The radio crackled again, making him jump, "Angel, report!"

Warren unclipped the radio from his belt and held it close to his lips to reply, "I am reporting that if there was anyone within a mile of this place, you just scared them off."

"Is it the place?"

"It matches her description.  Can you get a fix on my location?"

There was a short silence, and then the radio crackled again, "Yes.  I should be there in less than 20 minutes."

Viewing the impenetrable wall of vegetation before him, Warren elected to wait for Scott and the energy beams he could shoot from his eyes. Mina had hidden her home well.  He didn't know if there was a break in the vines that wrapped around the trees, but he suspected if there was one it would not be large enough for him and his wings to crawl through. In the meantime he searched around the perimeter for signs that one of Magneto's people had been there before him. 

Mina had said that her round house lay in a ring of trees that she had grown up around it. As Warren approached he could see the circle of pine, oak and maple trees that made up the border of her home in the woods, but the trunks were incredibly thick and gnarled, as if the trees had stood there for a hundred years.  The maple trees were just beginning to turn and the tips of their branches were flecked with orange and red, like a fire beginning to catch.  Vines, with luminous blue flowers danced between the tops of the trees.  Lower down the vines were hung with scarlet blossoms, blocking entrance into the circle of their limbs. On the other side of the mass he was able to see a faintly trodden path on the ground that led to a break low in the vegetation.  He crouched down and peered inside, too small for him to fit his six-foot frame and his sixteen foot wingspan through.  Just the right size for a five foot four inch woman though.  No sign that anyone other than Mina had ever been here. 

A few minutes later Scott jogged up, breathing lightly. No matter what kind of aspersions Warren may throw on Scott for being an anal-retentive control freak, he was in damn good physical shape, "Do you need a second to catch your breath?"

Scott missed the sarcasm, "No."  He surveyed the sheltering trees and vines.  Warren wondered if Scott was capable with his red vision of seeing the wild beauty of the place, "Is this the only way in?"

"Looks like it."

"Stand back then." 

Scott dialed the energy level of his visor low and let loose the power of his eyes. Red beams shot from his visor, snapping branches and ripping apart vines, widening the entrance so they could both crawl through.  The beams stopped.

A shower of blue and red petals fluttered down from the structure, shaken loose from the force of Scott's vision. They fell all around the two of them like tears.

"Oh dear," said Warren, "I don't think Mina's going to like what you did to her front door."

Scott wasn't listening.  He had frozen, looking at the petals coming to rest on the brown, leaf strewn forest floor.  Warren watched him warily, wondering what was going through his mind, what memory of Jean he was chasing down dark paths. Scott knelt and picked up a handful of luminous blue and red.  He touched them gently with his fingers, though Warren knew he could not feel their smoothness through his uniform's gloves.

"Scott…"

Scott stood up and put the petals in a pouch on his uniform belt, "I'm okay," though his voice was choked, "Let's go."

Warren led the way on hands and knees through the opening that Scott had widened for them.  His wings brushed the top of the vines and snagged on their broken ends. He winced as a couple of the softer (??) feathers were torn away. 

At the end of the dense vine tunnel he stood up.  It was lighter than he would have thought in the protected clearing; the sun's rays were filtered by the leaves and the flowers and cast a soft green glow.  In the center of the circle of trees stood a round structure covered with canvas no more than sixteen feet around. There was a door, a proper door built into the frame of the little house, and windows made of clear pvc panels sewn into the walls.

Behind him, Scott began abruptly to crack up.

Warren stared at the structure dumbly, "It's a yurt!"

It was indeed a yurt, a modernized version of an ancient Mongolian traveling house and the unwitting subject of a group of teen-aged mutants drunken fascination.

            Two of those mutants were standing here now, two were back at the mansion and one was gone. It shouldn't have been funny, and yet it was. The two of them laughed until their ribs ached, until neither could breathe or stand, and as one of them gained control of himself he would take one look at the other and loose it again.   Warren could not remember when he had laughed for so long.  It felt so good to feel the waves of laughter catch him and fling him up and then drop him down into a lull so he could catch his breath.  It was like flying on wind made of joy.  It took him a minute to realize that Scott's gasping was no longer laughter but grief.

            Professor Xavier had said once that tears into laughter was one of his favorite emotions. Warren thought laughter into tears was going to smash his heart.

            Scott had curled up into a ball on his knees on the ground, covering his face with his hands and rocking back and forth.  Warren crawled over to him, trailing the tips of his wings in the dirt and wrapped his arms around Scott's back, holding him as he sobbed.  Warren was weeping himself, thinking of Jean's red hair flashing in the light, lips pressed together in annoyance when she scolded a drunken young Scott and Warren, and throwing her hands up in despair at their hopelessness.  He had felt himself falling in love with her at that moment, even though he knew that a creature that glorious was not meant for him and acknowledging the bitterness of that thought.  He had been sincerely glad for them, no matter what Scott had jealously thought, when they had found happiness in each other, though it meant that he was left alone, outside the bright circle of their love.

            It was hopeless.  Hopeless to think that Warren would be able to help him put his life back together without her.

            A long time later Scott stirred underneath Warren's arms.  Warren pulled away.  Scott averted his face from Warren and pulled his visor off.  Behind the lenses his eyes were screwed up tightly, and he knuckled them free of tears.  Without his visor Scott looked naked, vulnerable.  Like a man grieving the death of his wife, not the leader of a strike force of mutants, desperately trying to hold it together. As if sensing Warren's perception of his humanity, he hastily put the visor back on.  His shield.  

            "I'm sorry," Scott apologized, "I shouldn't have lost control. It seems like I can't get a handle on it.  I'm always on the edge of loosing it. I shouldn't have burdened you."

            Warren took a deep breath, fighting anger, "Yes, you should have," he said with more emphasis than he had intended, "This is what friends do for each other. It's not all just getting drunk, partying and saving the world together, you know.  Friendship is give and take.  Stop being the leader for once, and take."

            Scott regarded him levelly though his chin quivered.  He nodded once, stiffly, "Then for God's sake, help me get up." Warren clamored to his feet and then leaned a hand down.  Scott took it and pulled himself up with a groan.

            "Don't tell me you are getting old Summers?"

Scott snorted, "Is this how it's going to work?  I take your hand, you give me shit?"  
            Warren shrugged and grinned, "Hey, that's what friends are for."  

Scott looked up at the sky, as if to ask for patience, "Okay, enough screwing around.  Lets get the stupid plants and get going."

He led the way to the door in the yurt and tried the door handle.  It was unlocked, and Scott opened it without knocking.   The windows and a Plexiglas dome in the roof of the structure made the inside seem light and airy.  There was one room, about sixteen feet around, with a pallet on the ground heaped high with sheepskins and blankets.  A small woodstove vented to the outside through a hole in the canvas looked to serve both as a heat source and as the occupant's sole way of cooking.  In a plastic tub next to it was a small collection of cooking equipment including a kettle and a skillet of made of cast-iron.   There was a set of plastic shelves that held an assortment of clothing up off the dirt floor, and another set of shelves was stuffed with books.  The only thing that kept the room from feeling grim and desolate were the hundreds of jewel-like orchids.  Underneath every window and hung from the rafters wherever light fell were pots of orchid plants.  Warren noted without surprise that every one of them was blooming.  Scott gave a low whistle.  Yellow and fuchsia, orange and spotted brown, pale green and white, the orchids hung on delicate stalks in sprays of astounding color.

"I can see why she wasn't willing to leave them," Scott said grudgingly.

Warren had to duck to get his wings to clear the doorway, but once inside the yurt he could stand up without stooping, "I don't know how we are going to get them to the jet without destroying them," he observed

"Does she live here, year round?" asked Scott incredulously

"I think so, "Warren ambled over to read the spines on the books.  Few had author's names he recognized.  From the titles it looked like her taste ran to politics, environmentalism and social commentary.  He picked an enormous paperback titled The Culture of Make Believe by Derrick Jensen and flipped through it, the words seemed to blur together for him and he put it back. He picked up another volume, "Julia Butterfly Hill," He noted.  Scott made a sound like a hum. "Who's that?"  
            "She sat in a redwood tree for two years to keep it from being cut down by a logging company.  She's anti corporate.  I felt sure you would have heard of her."

Warren shrugged, "Worthington Industries doesn't own any lumber companies."

"Interesting," Scott said, but it was not in response to Warren's comment.  He was kneeling down in front of another plastic tub, shifting through a series of envelopes.

"What do you have there?"

"Seed packets.  Hundreds of them."

Warren put the books down, "Like what?"

"Corn, beans, raspberries, cucumbers, zucchini, several different varieties, pumpkins, you name it.  She must grow her own food.  It makes sense, given her mutation."  
            Warren frowned, "Except she would not eat the oatmeal this morning because she said she could not eat plants."

 "Hello, what's this?" Scott pulled several plain envelopes out of the box. He flipped open the flaps and peered inside.  "More seeds.  No labels on these though."

"Perhaps its something she's collected from the wild."

"Maybe," Scott said.  He poured a couple of seeds out into his palm and then put them into his pouch.

Warren surveyed the entirety of the yurt and its contents.  Though he could visualize Mina in the space it seemed like a very lonely and isolated existence.  He wondered what it was like to not have a proper house of your own, to live in the woods like a refugee. He wondered how many other mutants lived that way, cut off from family, homeless and alone. He shivered, though the air was warm in the yurt.  His own life was far from perfect, but he had a home, people who would miss him if he were gone, a sense of security.  Mina had none of these things.  Warren touched an orchid's delicate purple petals, nothing but her plants. 

Scott had moved outside and was calling to him. Warren ducked low through the door and walked around the back of the yurt. He saw a setup for a solar shower with a rainwater collection system and an outhouse.  Scott was beyond them, looking at a small section of overgrown grass.

"What is that, weeds?"

Scott turned his visored face towards the angel, his expression was grim, "No, but it is weed."

Warren looked blank.

"What, did you only do designer drugs in college?"

Warren's jaw dropped, "No way."

"Way. It looks like the Professor's pretty, new houseguest is a drug dealer."


End file.
